


Break of Dawn

by aureliu_s



Series: The Dragonborn Era [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Celann tries, Dawnguard DLC, Developing Relationship, F/M, Miraak in the Dawnguard, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Serana and Miraak hate each other, Slow Romance, Tags will be updated, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf characters, celann and tharya are close friends, celann and tharya are old friends, description is bad, dragonborn is a werewolf, isran is kind of a bitch, lol rip, plotting to overthrow ulfric, tharya's plans are disrupted and she doesn't like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2019-11-12 02:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 61,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: "I thought you said you didn't have old friends, ahtlahzey.""I thought so too."Miraak is his own person again and Skyrim is fuming over her new High King, but the Last Dragonborn's plans to remedy that are put on hold when a letter from an old friend surfaces and calls her back to an organization that most people think is a myth: the Dawnguard. (Vampire hunters, or something.) It becomes a race against time once Tharya realizes that the vampire threat could very well be the end of life itself, and getting Serana and Miraak to stop bickering with each other is just a perk of the job.





	1. Fort Dawnguard

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello! my next big skyrim piece, which i'm hyped for :) i'll be trying to write both this and winter throne simultaneously, but this may take some precedent. i've set some word goals for myself that i'm hoping to reach and writing both pieces sounds like a good (terrible) way to do it! plus, i've had this idea FOREVER. this piece continues the chronology of both Apocrypha and Dragonmark, so i highly suggest you at least skim those first :)

“May I ask what you’re doing, _ahtlahzey_?” He called, raising the torch to be level with his head. The Last Dragonborn was crouched on the ground, her nose to the snow. She’d been like this for a few moments, intent on whatever her task was.  
“Looking,” she replied over the screaming wind, snow whipping at her face.  
“For?”  
“A path.” Miraak resisted the urge to roll his eyes--Fourth Era Nords, always so primitive. Never using their resources. Nevertheless, he let her hover over the snow for a few more dreadful seconds. Finally, Tharya stood, picking her staff out of the snow that had nearly buried it and brushed it off.  
“Did you find your path, _ahtlahzey_?” Miraak asked.  
“No,” she grumbled, grabbing the reins of her horse.  
“Allow me to make a suggestion-”  
“No.” The Dragon Priest frowned, but trudged through the snow after her without a word. She hardly knew where they were going, and at this rate neither did he. His feet hadn’t touched Skyrim soil in millennia, and that wasn’t helped by the fact she hadn’t revealed their destination to him. Tharya had used her hands to dig beneath some of the snow, presumably looking for a beaten path or even a stone road. He’d alerted her nearly an hour ago that they’d traveled off the main road, to which she hadn’t replied. Or if she did, it was lost to the blizzard.

 

It was impossible to know for sure, but he had a feeling they’d traversed this section of dark forest before.

“ _Ahtlahzey, laat._ This is useless.”

“We’re almost there,” she shouted back, wrenching her leg from the snow drift and plowing one more step ahead.

“Your staff _._ ” Miraak curled one fist into the fabric of his hood, holding it like a barrier in front of his face. Gods, what he wouldn’t give for his mask right now. With a grunt he threw the torch down, its light dying instantly in the snow. “Tap it against the ground, three times.”

He could feel her eyes on him, questioning, disbelieving. He stared back. Despite their close proximity he could barely see her face in front of him. Only the dull glint of moonlight off the soul gem fixed on the top of her staff gave her location. She said something but her voice was swept up by the wind; after a long moment of just the wind howling like an injured wolf, she kicked at the snow.

 

Then, with a grunt of effort, the spear tip connected with the ground three times.

 

Almost instantly, a crack of thunder split through the blizzard. It left his ears ringing, left his bones feeling as if they’d been rattled like chimes. Directly after the deafening sound, a flash of lightning lit the sky in front of them, silhouetting the Skyrim mountains. The lightning strike reflected in her clear eyes, lighting up at least half of the Rift with it. It left the air dense with electricity and the familiar crackle of magic. Even the snow seemed to grant a respectful pause, like its own version of an acknowledgement to higher power.

“What the _hell_ was that?” She staggered backwards, dumbfounded. The minuscule bolts of lightning dancing around her staff died slowly, crackling into silence, dissipating at her fingertips. “Your staff is blessed by Auri-El, _ahtlahzey._ ” Miraak half-turned to her, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “He will answer your call.”

She squinted as the snow picked up again, tiny razors carried by the bitter wind.  
“Could he do it a little less... _dramatically_?”

 

They followed a grueling path to where the lightning had struck. By the time the height of the snow began to crawl downwards, her entire face was numb. Her neck burned and her throat was shockingly drier than the Alik’r in summer. The horses were beyond exhausted and nearing collapse with every step, a true mirror of their owners. But the staff had shown her the way to the fort, and Miraak seemed confident in its magic.

 

So when her boots landed on firm, frozen ground, she was only slightly astonished.

 

The farther into the canyon they traveled the quieter the wind grew, diminishing to a mere distant whistle by the time they passed the lake. The snow fell in fat flakes here, and instead of whipping her skin they fell and melted on her eyelashes. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep forever. Maybe have a drink first, a tall bottle of Argonian Bloodwine. Roasted salmon—sprinkled with salt and that Breton herb mix. All topped in a delicious honey glaze, with a side of-

 

“Where are we, _ahtlahzey?_ ”

Miraak’s voice was closer now, just at her side. He spoke softly but his voice was hoarse from yelling. Something about being able to see him, even if it was just the outline of his hair and side profile against the moon, was assuring.

“Dayspring Canyon." Tharya sighed. "More importantly, Fort Dawnguard." He hadn’t pressured her for answers thus far, so now was as good a time as any. She supposed he had a right to know where and why she was dragging him across Skyrim.

“Dawnguard,” he echoed under his breath. It sounded stronger, more intimidating when blanketed with his accent. Said like it was supposed to be said, with an edge.

“I don’t think they were around in the Mythic Era.” She shrugged, stumbling over a rock protruding from the frozen grass.

“ _Nid_ , they were not.” The Dragon Priest mumbled. “But I have read about them. A militant group, similar to the...Vigilants of Stendarr?”

She grunted affirmative.

“Less religious, I guess.”

 

Tharya glanced to the sky, eyeing the stars. Most were clouded, but some winked down at her. Part of her half-expected tentacles to appear out of nowhere and envelop them both. The rational part of her pushed the illusion away.

 

* * *

 

A side tower of stone was the first thing that met their eyes, climbing to a near unbelievable height into the sky. Fort Dawnguard stood like a morose guardian, tucked away in the canyon, away from prying eyes. She and Miraak continued up the path without a word, before a harsh voice startled them into stopping.

“State your name and business!” The voice demanded from above. Her eyes traveled up the wooden wall, gate shut tight. The creak of a crossbow was swallowed up in the cold air between them.

“Tharya,” she called back, “Celann sent me a letter.” She gestured to Miraak. “A friend of mine—Miraak.”

The figure disappeared from the battlements after a moment’s hesitation, leaving them to stand in the cold before the thick wooden gates slowly opened.

 

Iron fittings creaked and groaned, frost snapping as the left gate opened to reveal a weathered man with dull auburn hair dressed in dark leather armor.

“About time you came, Thar.” Celann sighed, handing his crossbow off and exiting the gate. “I sent that letter months ago.”

“I was in Solstheim,” Tharya pushed the reins into Miraak’s hand, walking towards Celann to meet him halfway. Fabric met armor with a muffled _thud_ , and the two hugged tightly.

“Solstheim? Divines, what made you go there?”

“Some Dragonborn business. I’d much rather tell you over a hot meal.”

 

She clapped Celann’s shoulder and gestured for Miraak to join them. The Dragon Priest dragged himself forward, shifting both reins into one hand.

“This is Miraak, a friend of mine. Figured I’d take him along.”

This Breton, this _Celann_ —interestingly enough, he didn’t shy away from Miraak. Most people did; most people didn’t even allow him to get this close. But Celann extended his arm, held his gaze, and like two kings of old they clasped forearms.

“I suppose I’ll thank you for that later. We need all the help we can get.” He motioned for them to follow. They did so, delving past the gate for the first time and venturing into Fort Dawnguard.

 

* * *

 

“Are things bad?”

An Orc had taken the horses from him, leaving him free to wander a few steps off. The fort itself was situated on the upslope of a small hill, commanding a huge presence, casting an even bigger shadow.

“Things were already bad. No numbers, no provisions, no place to gather. Isran sent me to find this old place,” Celann gestured to the fort as if it were a rusty antique, “where the Dawnguard of old first gathered. He took care of the rest, but,” he frowned, “things just got more complicated.” They passed a small camp, no more than six, maybe seven people sitting around it. They were speaking but hushed each other as the trio passed, all eyes locked on Celann. The Breton looked mildly uncomfortable but continued to detail their situation to Tharya.  
“Celann,” the Last Dragonborn groaned, her tone full of warning.  
“You’re the strongest mage I know, Thar. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.” She shot Miraak a teasing glance. _Strongest mage_. “Isran already thinks you’re a no-show. Hopefully this’ll get him off my back.”

 

* * *

 

They climbed the beaten path that led them to the front steps of Fort Dawnguard, glistening with frozen snow. A small collection of people stood there, including the Orc from before aside a tall, dark-skinned Redguard with a pointed beard and scrutinizing gaze.

“Isran,” the Breton called, scaling half the steps. He gestured to Tharya and Miraak. “This is Tharya, the mage I spoke of?”

“The Dragonborn?”

He frowned.  
“Yes, the Dragonborn. And this is an accomplice of hers, Miraak.”

“So this is our mystery savior,” the darker man said, his voice gruff and almost disappointed. Regardless, he extended his hand. She took it.  
“So this is the man Celann sent me angry letters about.” She grinned back. Isran chuckled coldly.

“Celann’s kept me believing in you on pure speculation. Said you were the strongest mage he’d ever known. The Dragonborn. Sometimes I doubted it, though. If it hadn’t been for the stories coming out of Whiterun, I wouldn’t have waited this long.”

Tharya shifted back onto her heels, placing the tip of her spear against the ground. “Doubt what, my ability?”

“No, Dragonborn.” Isran snorted, sparing her a judgmental glance. “Your existence.”


	2. Diist, Laat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guest appearances by my man auri-el. this one's pretty boring, so i apologize, but next chapter we'll get into the dawnguard questline. for reference, tharya picks up around the "prophet" quest, when Serana returns to Fort Dawnguard to talk about the prophecy n stuff. i was in and out of writer's block on this one so expect maybe some little revisions later?

“So, you, what—kill dragons and take their souls?”

Tharya nodded around a mouthful of salmon, tearing off another piece of bread from the loaf and then handing it to Miraak.  
“Their souls, and their knowledge.”  
“Celann told me you took their power.”  
“Knowledge is power,” she chuckled, swallowing. Divines, it had been a long couple of weeks since she’d had a proper meal. Her fingers curled around the half-full bottle of Black-Briar mead on the table before her.  
“ _Power_ is power,” Isran said slowly, watching her drink the bottle dry. “You didn’t stop in Riften for supplies?”  
“Riften’s a lawless shithole.” Miraak snorted at that. Yes, he’d heard her utter disgust for the city voiced on multiple occasions, from the moment they’d crossed from Whiterun Hold into the Rift. Nearly every day since.  
“More likely to find a shank in your belly than food.” Celann mumbled his agreement. A silence settled over the table, Isran’s eyes trained on the Last Dragonborn. She pushed her bowl aside and uncorked a second bottle.

“ _Fen hi naak daar_?”

Now each pair of eyes settled on the First Dragonborn, but his gaze was fixed on the golden-brown haired mage sitting at the head of the table on his right. One dark hand sat, palm open, on the table.  
“ _Ni los hin._ ” She waved dismissively, barely getting all three words out before the Priest grabbed the bowl from her.

 

“That language,” Isran’s eyes narrowed, “what is it?”  
“Dovahzul. The dragons speak it.”  
“You, I understand. How does he know it?” The Redguard made a vague gesture to the Atmoran.  
“I, too, am _Dovahkiin_.” Celann’s eyes widened the slightest bit; those were the first words Miraak had spoken to anyone since his arrival. He straightened and then settled back into his chair, arms folded on the table. “ _Diist_ _Dovahkiin_. I was imprisoned many years ago. The _Laat Dovahkiin_ is the one who has slain the World-Eater.” Sharing such information made something in his spine tingle with uncertainty. Even here, in the relative privacy and seclusion of Fort Dawnguard, the same looks adorned the faces of Isran and Celann that he had seen in Winterhold and Ivarstead. Fear of the unknown, fear of the uncontrollable, fear of the powerful. Fear of the different.  
“That’s why you went to Solstheim,” Celann nodded slowly, putting two and two together. “Dragonborn business—saving the...the...what did you call yourself?”

“ _Diist_. First.”  
“The First Dragonborn?”

 

Her clear eyes found his golden ones across the table, a question behind her gaze. The fire popped behind them, and Isran’s intense stare filled the room with unbreathable pressure. Yes, that was her reason for coming to Solstheim. No tricks, no Hermaeus Mora, no reason to fight each other. He remembered feeling her presence the moment she stepped foot on Solstheim, the wave of power, of arcane energy she brought with her. As if the night he’d sucked the souls from her dragonblood, left her defenseless and weaker than ever before had never happened.

Finally, she spoke:

“That’s the condensed version.”

Yes, the _condensed version_.  
“You should get some rest,” Celann said, just as Isran was opening his mouth. “And tomorrow we’ll fill you in on the situation here.” He was the first to stand from the table and the first to leave, wandering towards the fire. He checked once or twice over his shoulder, pondering whether or not he should turn back when he noticed Isran and Tharya’s hardening gazes never left each other’s. _Divines, please don’t make this a bad idea._

The Last Dragonborn swiped her Black-Briar mead off the table, standing in unison with the First Dragonborn. She gave the Redguard a short nod, and the pair disappeared down the hall shoulder-to-shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Their shared room was cramped and the bed small, but it was a room nonetheless. He would’ve gone back to sleeping next to a campfire under the stars in a heartbeat if it weren’t for the snow still falling outside. There was a small fireplace tucked into one corner and a dwindling pile of wood beside it. The flames were fresh—someone had started the fire specifically for them. And then she blew out each flickering candle, submerging them in near darkness.  
“This friend of yours, _ahtlahzey._ Celann.”  
“What about him?” The bed groaned as they sat in unison on opposite sides, both reaching to take off their boots.  
“He does not seem to get along with the man he works with.” Miraak noted.  
“Isran? No, they don’t get along too well anymore. From what I know, Isran’s methods weren’t always...agreeable.” Next came her gauntlets, hardened leather stitched with intricate designs.  
“You have worked with him also?”  
“Celann used to be with the Vigilants of Stendarr.” She said. He nodded. “We’ve been friends a long time. He sent me letters.”

He was first to relieve himself of his robes, taking the chance to slide beneath the covers. They did little to keep the edge off the cold. He listened to the sound of fabric being removed, and finally the metallic touch of a spear against stone. The mattress dipped and Tharya let a long sigh hit the pillow. She was quiet for a moment, before mumbling her goodnight.

 

She didn’t sleep. Fort Dawnguard was drafty and old, doing little to muffle the screeching wind outside. Tomorrow, she hoped, the storm would pass. And they’d deal with Celann’s vampire threat, and then return to the schematics of her original plan: Ulfric. He wouldn’t last long on the throne, not when all of Tamriel knew how narrow-minded and arrogant he could be. This unusually long transition of power left Skyrim vulnerable. If the Aldmeri attacked, there would be no one to stop them. Imperials would never fight with Stormcloaks and Ulfric would be unable to unify his broken land so quickly. Perhaps this little detour would offer the people more insight into their new High King. Perhaps they’d rise up before she did. If that was the case, she’d have to back a civil rebellion, which somehow seemed easier than creating one.

 

Sometimes, Tharya wished she’d stayed in Sovngarde.

 

* * *

 

There was one thin window in the room, framing an even smaller portion of the night sky. Constellations were blurred by snow dancing on the wind. She hadn’t gotten a proper night of sleep since they’d left Winterhold—someone had to sit guard throughout the night, watch for wolves, or worse, dragons. And now, even when given a perfectly good bed and a roof over her head, she could barely even bring herself to blink.

 

“Your mind wanders, Dragonborn. It is not unusual for such hours of the night.”

She shot up and grabbed her spear in the same motion, thrusting it forward into the darkness. A new presence on the foot of the bed shifted away from it. The weapon’s glow was dim, but she didn’t need it to see the radiant spectre before her. His face was unknown to her but his features marked him as Elven: high cheekbones, round eyes, pointed ears that were angled ever so slightly outward. A proud nose and lips set in an unmoving line. His ethereal armor looked vaguely similar to some Falmer garb she’d seen before, bedecking the shamans and magic users of the subterranean race. He was unlike any other ghosts she’d encountered before. He had...an unmistakable life to him, an odd sense of legitimacy.  
“You use the weapon I gifted you against me, Dragonborn?” His index finger tipped the spear away from him. “Truly a Nord, then.”

Her eyes narrowed. The hell did that mean?  
“I’m not used to ghosts of old men climbing into bed with me.” The spectre looked utterly offended for a moment before he merely frowned. “Who are you—one of Mora’s?”  
“Nirn would crumble before I ever set foot in a Plane of Oblivion, Dragonborn. Especially not one so vile as Apocrypha. No, I am on the opposite side of that coin. My name is Auri-El.”

 

Tharya held her breath for a long, dense moment. The spear came down, lying carefully across her lap, pointed away from Miraak’s unconscious figure.  
“Then I suppose you know who I am.”  
“Talos has told me much.”

She resisted the urge to laugh— _Talos?_ Tiber Septim? Speaking to the Elven gods? Or, before he did that, _existing_? She could’ve brushed this all off as a dream and went back to sleep, but...she had the sense he wasn’t lying. Then again, a ghost claiming to be Auri-El was sitting at the edge of her bed, so gut feelings were all she could rely on.

“Then...why are you here?”

Auri-El sighed before he replied, gazing at her with mild scrutiny before answering her question.  
“I have come to meet you, Dragonborn, in hopes that it will reveal your fate to me.”  
“Then you’ve wasted a journey,” Tharya told him, shaking her head, “because I don’t know where the hell I’m going either.” She could’ve sworn a look of amusement danced behind his round eyes before he pushed it away.

 

“Indeed. Your course was never clear to me, Dragonborn. Nor was it to any of us—Elven or Nord. Talos tried best he could to keep you on the right paths.”

“Talos?”

“Oh, yes. He has guided you since your youth; always there, but never available. Never revealed to your eye. He treasures the Last Dragonborn, you see, and though he cannot intervene in the carrying out of a prophecy as ancient as yours, he was determined to...” Briefly his gaze found Miraak, nothing more than a dark figure in the dim light, “set things right.” His eyes tore away from the First Dragonborn, and for a moment he looked troubled. “You were always destined to come into possession of a holy weapon, Dragonborn. That much we were sure of.” Auri-El clasped his slender fingers together on his lap. “That it bears my blessing is a surprise...and an honor.” He nodded his head deeply, before returning to Miraak’s sleeping form. “As for the Dragon Priest...the Traitor. He was never destined to be rescued, nor was he seen to live. But you interrupted that, as well,” Auri-El gazed down the bridge of his straight nose to her, a certain wonder in his eyes, “and here he is.”  
“Miraak wasn’t supposed to survive four thousand years ago, either.” She spoke with a sudden rigidness to her voice, forefinger tapping against the spear. "And here he is."

“Hermaeus Mora still hunts you, you know. The Priest, as well.”

Her grip tightened.

“I will keep him at bay. As will Talos. My brethren disregard my...self-assigned charge over you, but you bear my blessing and my weapon. You are my duty now.” The specter stood from the bed, gazing long and hard out the window. “I will keep him at bay, but you must banish him yourself, when the time comes.”

“What does that mean?”

“When you are ready, Dragonborn,” Auri-El spared her one last glance, “accept the spear. It will become you, and you it; think of it no longer as your blade but an extension of your will. Accept the spear, and all will be right.”

“Accept the—wait, wait. What are you talking about? What about Talos?”

“Do not linger for too long, Dragonborn. Mora’s knowledge runs deeper than the oldest roots.”

“Can you at least keep him away til I'm done here? Trust me, I'd love to jump a ship to Solstheim and shove my foot up the bastard's ass, but I have a commitment here first. The vampires won't wait.”

The ethereal god folded his hands behind him, nodding slowly.

“Indeed they will not, Dragonborn." His eyes fell away from the window. "I will keep you and the Priest safe for now. Though," a little twinkle crossed his features, "once you are finished with your quest here, you may not need to shove your fine boots anywhere.”

“Well, I'd like to anyway. Revenge, that sort of thing.”

“Accept the spear, Dragonborn. It will guide you. Pray to Talos--he complains that you have not visited his shrine in some time.”

She snorted under her breath.

“Saving the world isn't exactly a slow business.”  
“He knows that to hold truth, Dragonborn.” Auri-El approached her again, the tiniest of amused smiles tugging on his lips. “Now, sleep. I cannot see your life but I know your future, and it is a momentous task you have undertaken here. Meritable, but momentous.” Without another word, he pressed two fingers to her forehead, disappearing mere seconds after. She was asleep before her head even hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fen hi naak daar - will you eat that?  
> ni los hin - it's yours


	3. The Vukul Prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with this we delve into the main questline :) fun times. serana meets miraak, isran is a bitch and tharya hates riften. thank you to everyone who's read and left comments/kudos so far! it means the world to me!

“New armor,” were her first words to him, falling into step at his shoulder. “You like it?” It was a rhetorical question, without a doubt, but he spared a glance anyway. It was the same brown light armor that the members of this _Dawnguard_ wore, but she had put over it the quarter-sleeve outer robe of her Archmage garb. Dusky greyish-blue fabric against leather, a pair of scrolls tucked into her belt, and the same fur-lined black boots. He gave a disinterested grunt.

 

“I had an odd dream last night, _ahtlahzey_.” She eyed him as they descended the stairs together, raising one eyebrow. “ _Aan gaaf_ came to me. It spoke, but...I could not hear it. And yet, I did not feel it was speaking to me, but rather, another.” Miraak’s face looked mildly distraught as he spoke, like he was revealing something he shouldn’t be. Part of it made sense; he wasn’t used to being able to talk about his problems. Whatever they may be. He had never been encouraged to discuss himself with others. Tharya hummed but said nothing, sparing not so much as a blink under his questioning gaze. She was still debating whether or not Auri-El had been real last night, or a figment of her exhausted imagination.  
“ _Ahtlahzey,_ ” the Priest stopped on the stairs and caught her elbow, forcing her to stop on the step just below him. His golden eyes were full of intense interest but also warning; he wasn’t one to allow things to be kept from him. The Last Dragonborn narrowed her eyes. “ _Dreh ni dein soven nol zey, ahtlahzey_.”

“You aren’t my overlord,” she retorted, climbing two steps so their eyes were level. Anger flared behind his gaze. He knew she was right, in the depths of his mind, he knew he couldn’t force her to do anything. Or tell him anything. But he would never ask nicely. After a lifetime of controlling the inferior, here was one he couldn’t keep tabs on.  
“ _Fun zey._ ” Her clear eyes sent a ripple of fire through his veins. For a woman he’d been pushed to know so intimately in recent memory, she felt...distant. He knew her body but not her mind. She always made witty remarks and drank her mead and had a general distaste for the world, but now it felt more supported. Reinforced, with some shallow level of hatred. He calculated his next words very carefully, some part of him not wishing to ignite her anger more. “If you please, _ahtlahzey_.”

 

He caught the momentary look of surprise that dawned on her features before it disappeared.  
“ _Aan gaaf_ ,” she echoed his words, “a spectre appeared to me last night, claiming to be Auri-El.” His brow furrowed. An Elven god? “He told me...” she shrugged, “not much, really. He said he couldn’t see my destiny, and that he was keeping Hermaeus Mora off our backs.”

His spine went rigid. _Hermaeus Mora is laughing at us, you know_. Had he been so careless as to think the Prince wouldn’t come after them? One Dragonborn to kill, another to enslave for eternity. The crisscrossing lines on Tharya’s face shifted as she frowned for a moment. Miraak had grown strangely _fond_ of the way her warpaint moved when her facial expressions changed, had studied each movement immensely when she conversed with others. She spoke novels with her face, but only sentences with her mouth.  
“—the spear, and he’ll just, I don’t know, go away or something. Miraak?”

 _Dii mul gein_. That’s what she had called him before. _My strong one._  
“Yes. Accept the spear.” He nodded to bring himself out of his trance.  
“Do you have any idea what he could mean by that?” The Priest remained silent for a long moment, combing his lifetimes of accumulated knowledge. _Accept the spear._ He had heard of men “accepting” weapons, though from the stories, “becoming” seemed a more accurate term. Meditating for days on end, combined with hard training, the drain of earthly desires. Surely Auri-El did not mean for her to let the cold emptiness of becoming her own weapon consume her. She was the Last Dragonborn. There would always be need of a savior.  
“Meditation, perhaps.” He said finally. “Aldmer of old. _Fahliil_ who trained their minds, became mortal _tuz_ .”  
“Human swords?”  
“Mindless _fahliil_ , without feeling or desire. They lived only to fight. As I understand, the Aldmer of your time have refined the art to achieve total balance of mind and weapon, without discrediting one’s inherit humanity. Their weapons become not a blade but-”  
“An extension of their will.” Miraak let his eyes drift down to hers, and suddenly he saw the same Dragonborn he’d met on Solstheim before. Without reservations against him, enveloped in their conversation, wading yet again on the shallow shore of his vast ocean of knowledge. Her eyes were fixed on the wall past his shoulder, fingers tapping against the spear.  
“ _Geh, ahtlahzey_.” He realized his hand was still closed around her arm, and let it fall to his side.

 

But now it was her who grabbed him, fingers squeezing his wrist.  
“So, how about it?” He gave her a confused look. “Will you help me? You know a hell of a lot more than I do.” She was asking _him_ for help? Miraak swallowed back the dryness in his throat before nodding.  
“ _Geh. Ahtlahzey_.” He repeated. In an instant, her digits closed around his palm and she smiled, lips parting to say something when a gruff voice interrupted:  
“Dragonborn.” Both their heads shot up the stairs to where Isran was standing, arms crossed over his chest. To his continued surprise, Tharya didn’t let go of him. “It’s time to see whether or not Celann was right about you.”

They shared a glance before trailing back up the stairs, following the Redguard’s heavy footsteps.

Isran led them back to the railed walkway of the rotunda, and then right into a room crowded with pillars and half-walls, dimly lit by a few dying torches. On the back wall, behind a thick stone pillar, Isran stopped.  
“This is what Celann is so insistent you’ll help us with.” Glowing bronze eyes slowly rose to meet the First and Last Dragonborn, and after a brief silence Miraak growled out one word:

“ _Vukul._ ”

 

“Serana, actually.” The woman replied. She was young, with raven hair and high cheekbones, dressed in regal black-and-red clothes. Tharya swore she spotted fangs when her lips moved. Isran grumbled something. Miraak took a step forward, eyes ablaze.  
“Do not trust it, _ahtlahzey._ This nightcrawler-”  
“ _Vampire._ ” She corrected. “No one’s called us nightcrawlers in ages.”

“I was alive when your race were nothing more than mutilated men who lived short lives and feasted on human flesh. Do not test me, nightcrawler.” The staff end of Tharya’s spear came up to stop him as he moved to go forward again. The Dragon Priest rumbled something in Dovahzul before taking a reluctant step back.  
“We found it in Dimhollow Crypt,” Isran stated. The “it” apparently implied the woman standing before them, but she only looked minorly offended. Exasperated, moreso. “Celann said that big scroll would make you want to help.”

“ _Daar los aan Kel_.” Miraak gently grabbed her elbow, shifting his weight forward. “An-“

“Elder Scroll.”

“ _Hi krilon kroved nii voth hin nuvah, vukul_?” He hissed, stepping forward.

“Miraak,” Tharya planted the staff firmly across his middle, her gaze holding him in place. “We’re here to help.”  
“I will not aid or abet the _vukul_ , _ahtlahzey._ ”

“Then we’re done here?” Isran suggested, glancing between the three of them.  
“No. We need to hear her out. If she risked her life coming to you, then there’s a damn good reason for it.” The Last Dragonborn stated, agitation seeping into her tone.

“We don’t need vampire sympathizers, Dragonborn. Which I suppose means we don’t need you. Celann-”  
“Save it,” Tharya demanded. “I don’t care if you want me here or not, _that_ scroll”—she aimed her spear at Serana, who shifted away from the intense glow of the tip—”is an Elder Scroll. And _I_ am the Dragonborn. I know you want this to be your problem, so you can run things your way and order everyone around.” She squared her shoulders and took a lingering step towards Isran, pulling her spear away from Serana and tightening her grip around it. The Redguard’s nostrils flared, but the ferocity in her clear eyes remained unfaltering. “But that Elder Scroll just made it my problem.”

 

She swiveled to Miraak, spear now aimed for him.  
“Which means this is your problem, now, too, _Diist Dovahkiin_.” She spoke low and almost accusatory, eyes hard. This was not the same as the distance she’d given herself from him before; this was purely her wrestling him back into place, which, he supposed, was at her side. Perhaps he should’ve stayed in Apocrypha.

Serana waited until they had all settled and finished casting angry looks at each other, before nodding to the Last Dragonborn.  
“Not many people would know an Elder Scroll when they see one,” she said, “but, I guess it makes sense the Dragonborn would.”

“Don’t you have something important to be telling us, vampire?” Isran groaned, rolling his eyes.  
“Keep doing that, they may get stuck in your skull.” Tharya murmured. Serana grinned. “Start easy. What are you doing here?” She aimed the question to the vampire, who looked between the two men’s faces before replying.  
“Believe me, I’d rather not be here either. But I told Celann about this a couple days ago, and he said you’d know what to do. If you ever showed up. It’s about me. Or, the Elder Scroll buried with me.”  
“I showed up,” Tharya prompted, nodding for her to go on. “Tell me about the Scroll.”

 

“It starts and ends with my father. He’s not what you could call a “good person”, even by vampire standards. But he wasn’t always so _bad_. He used to be a good man, a long time ago. Then there was a shift in him. He chanced upon this hidden prophecy and just...lost himself to it.”  
“A prophecy?” Tharya echoed. “What kind of prophecy?”  
“The pointless and vague kind, like all the other ones. The one thing that was clear to him was a part about vampires no longer needing to fear the sun. That’s what he’s so obsessed with. If vampires control the sun, then they can control the world.”

“What could give him that kind of power?” The Last Dragonborn shifted her weight to her staff, lost in thought. “A weapon, maybe? A spell?”  
“He never said. My mother and I were smart enough to see that his obsession would invite a war with the entirety of Tamriel, and we tried to stop him. That’s the reason I was sealed away with the Elder Scroll.”

Isran held a hand up, and Serana trailed off. The Redguard was thinking too, staring at the floor for a long moment before he spoke.  
“What does this have to do with the Dawnguard, vampire?” He shrugged lightly. “Why tell us?”  
“You’re kidding, I hope?” Tharya scoffed, gesturing to the castle around them. “A fort full of vampire hunters wouldn’t want to know about a vampire plot to take over the world?” He was silent. “At least try to see the larger picture, Isran. Your blind hatred will get us nowhere.”  
“Hatred is what keeps men like me alive, Dragonborn,” he growled. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill this bloodsucking fiend here and now.”  
“Because she’s the best chance we have against her father.” The Last Dragonborn shook her head. “Honestly, I’m starting to realize why Celann left.” Isran glared at her for a hard second before pushing past Miraak and stalking towards the center of the room, a few feet away. Her gaze settled on Miraak, who was standing like a vanguard, arms crossed. He looked back but remained silent.

 

“I have the Elder Scroll with me,” Serana gestured over her shoulder. “I don’t know what it says, but it must have something that’ll help us stop my father. Of course, neither of us can read it.” She sighed. Isn’t that always how these prophecies went? Too difficult for their own good? Tharya’s nose wrinkled.  
“Then who can?”  
“ _Rak Sonaak._ ” Their attention swung to the Dragon Priest standing halfway in the shadows. He dragged a thumb thoughtfully across his chin, looking to them both. “A Moth Priest. They devote their lives to preparing and reading the _Kelle_.” He nodded slowly, sparing Tharya a glance. “If they still exist in this era.”  
“They do, in Cyrodiil. I’ve heard of them.” Tharya confirmed. She’d only thought the Moth Priests to be a myth, or, even worse, a order full of frauds. No one had the need for an Elder Scroll to be read in...centuries, if not more. Even if she did call Odahviing and travel to Cyrodiil, it would be a week, maybe longer until she returned. Time they did not have to spare.

Isran drifted back into the circle, stroking through his pointed beard.

“An Imperial scholar passed by the other day. I saw him while I was staking out the road. He could be your Moth Priest.”  
“ _Drey hi tinvaak wah rok?_ Did you speak with him?” Miraak stepped back into the dying ring of torchlight.  
“No, and I’m not wasting any men on finding him,” Isran huffed, “I’m fighting a war I intend to win.”

 _Helpful_.  
“Anyone could have seen him. Anywhere around here is fair game,” Serana shook her head. “If anyone has an idea, I’m listening.” Tharya checked over her shoulder. Miraak’s face was blank, before he straightened up.  
“ _Mindaziir_. The College is a place of historical and arcane studies. _Rak Sonaak_ would go there, undoubtedly, _ahtlahzey_.”  
“We’ve just come from there.” Tharya shook her head. “Mirabelle or Urag would’ve told me about any visitors before we left.”  
“Then we should start in the nearest towns. People who travelers usually go to—innkeepers, carriage drivers. What’s the closest city?” Serana shrugged. “We’ll have to start there.”

 

Tharya bit back a groan. The nearest city just so happened to be the one she regularly tried to avoid.  
“The nearest city is a lawless shithole by the name of Riften,” she sighed, “but it’s as good a place to start as any.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dreh ni dein soven nol zey, ahtlahzey - do not keep secrets from me  
> fun zey - tell me  
> fahliil - elf; possibly made by the ancient nords because they didn't want to call them "mer"  
> vukul - there's no dovahzul word for "vampire", so i combined "night" and "evil", vulon and vokul  
> Daar los aan Kel - that is an elder scroll  
> Hi krilon kroved nii voth hin nuvah, vukul - you dare defile it with your presence, vampire  
> Rak Sonaak - Moth Priest  
> Mindaziir - the academy


	4. The Shithole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya, miraak, and serana journey to riften in search of their Moth Priest. marcurio makes a guest appearance. and tharya hates riften just as much as ever. not much happens in this chapter, so i apologize. the next one will be a little more exciting and i think (?) we'll finally get our main man decimius.

Celann showed them to the stables, where their horses were standing in dusty stalls with sparse hay sprinkled on the floor. Tharya looked pointedly at her friend, gravitating towards a beautiful, smokey buckskin.

“Isran had to supply the fort first,” was the only thing the Breton offered in his defense. Miraak had never taken a moment to look at her horse, but at first glance it was obviously not of Skyrim. Cyrodiilic, most likely. Its legs were fully black, but the color dissipated around its chest and rear, giving way to a dappled beige. Smooth coat, lean muscles, not bulky or brutish like the steeds the Nords preferred.

“Maybe I should move Bucephalus to the fort, then.” He would’ve written her comment off as unreasonable, but the other two stallions beside his own were frightfully skinny. Serana saw it too, and glanced towards them.

“Bucephalus?” The vampire queried, patting the underfed horses affectionately. “Like the legend?”

“Named after it.” Tharya confirmed, lifting the saddle off the side of the stall and placing it on the curve of the beast’s back. Celann found two saddles; one was considerably more worn than the other. He began to outfit one of the bony horses, when the Last Dragonborn stopped him. “Those things are one foot in the grave, Celann. A merciful death would be an arrow, not riding.” Serana straightened out, as if to make her presence known.  
“I’m coming with you.” She stated clearly, eyeing the Dragonborn. The other woman nodded, leading Bucephalus out of the stall. Tharya mounted before she replied, one fist curling around her staff and holding it horizontal in front of her. She gave a vague nod to the Dragon Priest.   
“You can ride with him.”

They looked at each other.

 

* * *

 

The road to Riften was still covered in snow and hardly traveled. The sky was clear, letting the sun reflect painfully off the endless white. The archmage led them, her spear glowing still at Serana’s presence. They trudged through the snow in silence, with the _vukul_ sitting behind him, fingers barely curled into his robes for balance. He had asked Tharya why she could not take the abomination with her, but the Last Dragonborn merely gestured to her spear. He was silent after that. They passed some other riders who warned them about rumors of vampire attacks. Well before noon, they were approaching the main gate to Riften.  
“Hold there! State your name and business!” One guard pushed through the snow and drew his shield up, ready for a fight should one break out. Tharya pulled Bucephalus to a stop.  
“We’re with the Dawnguard,” she called back, gesturing to the mountains. “Our business is our own.”  
“Your business is my business now, Dawnguard, as long as you’re in my city.” The guard’s hand settled on his hilt. The Last Dragonborn sighed, shifting in the saddle. Miraak got the impression she and the guards of Riften never saw eye-to-eye, quick to violence as they seemed. He flicked the reins and his horse meandered forward.  
“We are searching for a Moth Priest.” He said to the guard. “One may have passed through here, inquiring about an Elder Scroll. He would’ve been dressed in a grey robe.” The guard seemed to consider for a moment, thoughtfully rubbing his beard. He glanced back to Serana, peering against the sunlight and the shadow cast by her dark hood.

“Man like that came through less than a fortnight ago.” The guard shrugged lamely. “Can’t remember where he said he was going...a bit of coin might help me remember.”

Tharya made a disgusted noise, somewhere between a grunt and a groan. _Of course._ After a momentary stare-down with the guard, she fished a coin purse from her saddlebag and counted out ten septims.  
“Fifteen.” The man was on his toes watching her set each one aside.  
“Ten,” Tharya said coldly, “and I don’t kill you.” The sentry grumbled something under his breath and nodded to his partner to open the gate.  
“The priest you’re looking for came by about a week ago. Stayed at the Bee and Barb. I overheard him talking with that Argonian who runs the place—said something about those scrolls you talked about. Said something about Dragon Bridge, too. I’ll wager that’s where he is now. Left the next morning.”

 

The gate creaked open, and at the same time a man exited a small house directly beside the stables. He took ten septims that the guard eyed hungrily and then their horses. Miraak caught Serana as she breezed ahead of him to the Last Dragonborn’s side.  
“Don’t try anything, _vukul_.” Her glowing eyes rolled and she snatched her arm from his grip. All with matching countenances of displeasure on their faces, the trio entered Riften.

 

With every step further into the city, he saw why Tharya hated this place. The air was tense, and every available pair of eyes was on them as they entered. A man with black hair and a permanent grimace almost snarled at them as they passed. Tharya said something to him that made him reach threateningly for his blade. And just when he stepped out of her shadow to put the false, Fourth Era Nord back into his place, she pulled him back to her side.  
“Ignore it,” her fingers crawled down from his wrist to his hand, “one wrong move and we’ll have the entirety of Riften coming for our heads.” He grunted his disapproval, and waited for her to pull her hand away. She didn’t. He sent a warning glare over his shoulder to combat Serana’s devilish smirk.

 

Tharya led them clear of the marketplace and hardly even spared a glance towards the Jarl’s castle. It was a near beeline to one of the clustered buildings—which, he noted, all looked exactly alike. He instantly recognized it as a tavern, brimming with people relishing in the regular stench of alcohol. Not one patron looked at them as they entered. An odd contrast from outside. Tharya maneuvered through the tables and bodies to the counter, smiling at the Argonian woman behind it.  
“Keerava!”

The woman looked up at her name and seemed rather unimpressed until her beady eyes settled on the Last Dragonborn.  
“No! Out! You bring nothing but trouble!” Tharya’s smile faltered and she bit back a sigh. Another reason she hated Riften, he supposed.  
“Keerava, come on—Talen-Jei! There you are, old friend.” She waved for the other Argonian to come over. Miraak watched as the sly smile on the man’s face turned sour almost instantly. “Or...nevermind.” Tharya groaned, pleading as Keerava refused her once more and then turned tail to the other customers waiting for their drinks.

“What did you do?” Serana chuckled, letting down her hood. The Last Dragonborn grumbled something under her breath but left it at that. Her eyes fell back to the door, where a pair of dark-clad figures were entering. They kept their heads down and separated the moment the door closed behind them. Her fingers tightened around the staff end of her spear, not noticing how the glow intensified as the shadows entered.

  
“Tharya!” A new voice made her jump, and the wrinkly, red-eyed face of a Dunmer entered her vision. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again.” She examined him for a second. Where did she know his face from? It’d been close to a year since she’d stepped foot inside Riften’s walls—and thank Talos for that.  
“Brand-Shei?”

“The one and only, I’m afraid,” the Dunmer shrugged and then looked at to the Atmoran and vampire standing on either side of her. “Who’s this?”  
“Oh, uh, this is a friend of mine. From Solstheim.” Miraak watched the Dunmer look at him with skepticism. He was not one of his kin. “Teldryn. And this is Serana, my...cousin.”

Brand-Shei shook each of their hands before gesturing back to his table. They followed him and each took a chair. Except Serana.

“Keep your secrets, then. Maybe I’m better off not knowing what you’re doing with...with them.” Tharya sent him an apologetic smile, her gaze trailing to the ancient vampire.  
“Is there a reason you’re standing, or do you just like it?”  
“I’d like to go see the city.” Miraak shifted. There was no way Tharya would let her out of their sight. No way she’d-  
“Go ahead. Be careful.”

“ _Ahtlahzey-_ ”  
“Be back soon. The sooner we find that priest, the better.” Serana nodded and then weaved through the crowd, vanishing out the doors.

 

* * *

 

Miraak let Tharya and Brand-Shei’s voices fade away. Their conversation was unimportant to him. What was important, now, here, was the skin crawling on his shoulders. A feeling he couldn’t shake. Perhaps it was because he now knew that there was a pure blooded _vukul_ wandering the streets. Perhaps it was the man at the gate. Perhaps it was this city, which made him uneasy to begin with. His golden eyes surveyed the inn. Not one person had given him or Tharya a second thought since they walked in...perhaps they were so used to strangers they didn’t need to. Or perhaps they’d all size him up later, determine his worth on the streets. And for now they’d nurse their drinks. His attention fell to the other outside door sitting across the floor from him. There was a bench beside it, occupied by a man he could only assume was a mage, if his robes and lack of sword were anything to go by. On the opposite wall, two hooded figures, mumbling to each other. One lifted his head to scan the inn every so often. The Dragon Priest hadn’t seen them initially when he entered.

 

Tharya leaned back to laugh at something Brand-Shei had said, clear eyes momentarily darting to the First Dragonborn. He saw something reflected in them just then, a sudden light circling the underside of her pupil. Before he could let himself revel in the beauty of a goldish tint against crystalline, he felt his back straighten. What could possibly be reflecting from below her?

 

The spear.

 

Her face shifted into concern when he sat up, fixed on the two figures in the corner. But they weren’t there. Their mugs were left on the table, but they had vanished. Where were they? He began to search the inn all over again. They weren’t at the bar, nor at the other door. Not the stairs either. They weren’t—

 

A short shout and the force of the table being shoved into his gut alerted him to the Last Dragonborn. Just as he turned back to her, a grey arm slid around her neck and yanked her upwards, onto her feet and away from the table. Her spear clattered to the ground, its glow almost blinding. He grabbed it, twirling the weapon on his fingers so the tip pointed upwards. The cloaked figure hissed in pain, wrenching Tharya back further.

 _Vukul_.

By now the inn had gone silent, save the banging of chairs as people jumped up and away.  
“Do not fight!” The vampire growled, locking a gauntleted hand around her throat. “Fight, and she dies.” His jaw tightened. Brand-Shei pressed himself into the wall, his eyes darting between the Nord and the man he knew definitely wasn’t from Solstheim. The vampire grinned slowly, pointed teeth bared in the dim lighting. “I’d heard whispers the First Dragonborn had returned to Skyrim,” he drawled, dragging the sharpened finger of his gauntlet gently across Tharya’s throat, “I hadn’t expected you to be following this bitch around the country, though.”  
“I won’t apologize for killing you bastards,” the Last Dragonborn grit out, inhaling sharply as the claw pressed into her skin. “Not as long as I live.”

“Which may be shorter than you expected, Dragonborn.” He chuckled darkly. “We know you found Serana. Hand her over, and maybe I’ll kill you now.” He inspected Miraak carefully. “And your Atmoran friend here will make a nice meal for Lord Harkon.”  
“I’m sure he tastes terrible,” her laugh was cut short by a cry. Blood spilled from the incision. “Very game-y. All frowns and brooding and tension. I, on the other hand, am very carefree. Delicious, I’m sure.”

 

Miraak weighed his options before surging forward, with all intentions to rip that _vukul_ in half and drag Serana back to Fort Dawnguard. Is this why she wanted to leave? To call in her kin, so they could get rid of the First and Last Dragonborn for her? So she could fulfill the prophecy?

A blade at his neck stopped him cold.  
“You’re a handsome one, First Dragonborn,” a new voice purred against his ear. Dark, low, chilling. But female. “We might have to have some fun before Harkon devours you.” Clammy fingers slid into his hair and jerked his head backwards. He swallowed against the knife. “Drop the spear, pretty one.” His own heartbeat hammered against the inside of his ears, fire coursing through his veins. He could unleash his Thu’um, right here and now, destroy these filthy creatures. He could kill them with a well placed spell, an explosion of light that would send them to Oblivion. But the Thu’um, his magic—they could tear down the entire city. _The cost would be too great_ , he told himself. _Ahtlahzey would not want it._ “I said drop it!” Her teeth grazed his neck, leaving a burning trail of blood welling to the surface. His roar shook the inn to its foundations, sending terrified cries up from the locals who’d pressed themselves into the corner. He suppressed it. The Thu’um did not come.

 

Miraak lifted one leg and sent his foot back into the vampire’s knee, the sickening _snap_ of bones matched only by a shrill scream. He spun the spear on his fingers and, in one single motion, whipped around to meet the vampire’s falling form. She screamed again as the spear cut through her body with ease, her voice rising as points of light erupted from her eyes. He tried to wrench it out but the spear would not budge. He hadn't cast anything. Then her mouth, and in a split second she was enveloped in a high-pitched ringing and a blinding explosion that left him deaf, unable to see around the dots claiming his vision.  
“You’ll pay for that, you sick son of a bitch!” The Atmoran staggered around to face the second vampire, wrestling to keep Tharya in place. He flipped his grip around the weapon, prepared to launch it directly into the set of furious, gleaming eyes—

 

And the second vampire’s voice died out.

 

The inn was quiet still, and as Tharya kicked away the nightcrawler’s body, the mage dressed in gold robes retracted his phantom sword from its back. A shimmering purple blade. A Bound weapon. He tore his eyes away from the vampire and looked between the two Dragonborns, before finally settling on the one in front of him.  
“So, does that make us even for the bear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't entirely happy with the flow of this chapter but i figured i'd get it up and make some revisions later :) anyone got cool ideas about how dragon bridge could potentially have a link to the dragon cult? i'm a sucker for Miraak being a walking history book. also FUN FACT: Bucephalus is the name of Alexander the Great's horse, who supposedly tamed him by helping him overcome his fear of his own shadow. Alexander and Bucephalus were besties, so i think i'll try to recreate that relationship here :)


	5. Miraak, faal Grutiik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miraak encounters old enemies, tharya's hiding something, and odahviing is strongarmed into doing another favor for the LDB. but don't get him wrong, he'll still melt the flesh off miraak's bones in an instant and serve him up to paarthurnax for supper. (i live for odahviing and tharya having a super close relationship) dovahzul translations at the end!

“I told you. Nothing but trouble.” Tharya groaned from where her head rested on her arms, leaning over on the counter. “And you. You too.” The Argonian snapped, snatching away the tankard as his hand fell towards it. Miraak bit back a sigh. Mead had taken the edge off his nerves and the burn away from his neck. He gingerly touched the parallel scrapes—the bleeding had stopped, but it was still tender. Swollen.  
“ _Vos zey koraav_.” One hand pushed his own away while another lightly grabbed his jaw, angling his head to the side. His eyes slid to Tharya, and for a brief moment she smiled at him. “Did she bite you?” He shook his head. The tips of her fingers were cool against his skin, pushing the hem of his robe back from his neck. “ _Sanguine vampiris_ ,” she said, leaning back, “it carries in their blood. Three days until vampirism sets in, but until then, I have a potion that’ll cure it.” She reached for her tankard and slung it back, disappointed to find it empty. Her eyes stuck to Keerava for a moment, but thought better of it. “Just don’t let me forget. The only cure for vampirism is in Falkreath. Not on the way to Dragon Bridge.”

Miraak hummed in reply. He doubted he’d contract vampirism from one little scrape, but it sounded as if she spoke from experience. He trusted her experience. He trusted... _her_. The Dragon Priest glanced around the inn, mostly abandoned now except for the mage. He had returned to his bench, like a half-drunk guard dog at the door. The locals cleared out not long after the vampires had been disposed of, steering clear of the pile of purplish ashes on the floor. The spear hadn’t felt right in his hand; it had almost _denied_ him, shaking in his grip, leaving angry welts across his palm. It would have no wielder except Tharya. Auri-El had imprinted it on her, made it hers alone.

That, or his Daedric taint wasn’t completely gone.

He didn’t spare another thought before mimicking the Last Dragonborn’s actions, lifting his hand to her throat. Magic sped through his veins and flowed from his fingertips into her body. A tiny sigh of approval flew from her lips as her skin stitched back together, the thin incision no longer than his index finger disappearing. He pushed her face towards him with his thumb, gave it a quick once-over, and nodded.

  
“I heard what happened,” Serana closed the door heavily behind her. “Are you both alright?” Miraak instantly retracted his hand, letting it fall to his hip. But there was no sword to grab there—it was an odd feeling, to have no physical weapon to grab for. It made him feel incomplete.  
“Are you? I was worried they went after you.”  
“One did. The guards took care of him.” She slid onto the empty stool on Tharya’s left. “Did you learn anything more about our Moth Priest?”  
“I hate Riften and Riften hates me,” the Last Dragonborn gestured vaguely around her. “Unless—” she turned to the abandoned inn— “Brand-Shei! You wouldn’t have happened to see an old man in a grey robe passing through sometime last week, would you?”  
The Dunmer shook his head.  
“That leaves us with Dragon Bridge, then.” Serana shrugged.

“Dragon Bridge? That’s almost halfway across Skyrim.” Tharya groaned into her tankard.  
“How far?”

The Last Dragonborn stared at the vampire, glancing to Miraak for a brief moment.  
“ _Halfway across Skyrim_.” She repeated. Serana frowned but didn’t say anything more. “It’s in Haafingar, in the opposite corner of the map from the Rift.”  
“There _will_ be more vampire attacks,” Serana shrugged again, “if my father knows I’m awake then he’ll send people after me. After this.” She gestured to the Elder Scroll still attached to her back. “A Dragonborn and a Dragon Priest may not be enough to stop him.”

Miraak straightened at her words. How did she know him? She hadn’t given any indication beforehand, not even when Tharya spoke his name. But now her eyes narrowed at him, and as Tharya’s mouth opened to ask the question he’d given thought to, she answered it: “My father started researching the Dragon Cult when he became obsessed with this prophecy. Legend says you were great at oppressing people,” her tone was drenched with sarcasm. And, he noted, traces of malcontent. “He told me the story of the Priest who rebelled against the Cult and was locked away for all eternity, with his brother as his jailor. He wanted to find the same magic used to lock you up. Maybe he could use it against others for the same purpose.”  
“Vahlok did not lock me away,” Miraak grit out, “I was imprisoned.” The vampire made a face.  
“That’s the same thing as getting locked up.” She shook her head.  
“By a Daedric Prince.”

Her face shifted then, and for a short moment he thought he saw sympathy, layered with recognition. She had come into contact with the Daedra, then? Perhaps with Mora as well? If her father had been willing to delve into history as far back as the Cult, maybe he had dealt with the Lord of Apocrypha himself.

After a dense silence Tharya cleared her throat.  
“Then maybe we should enlist help.” She planted her hands against the counter. “Hey, Marcurio!” Tharya half-twisted on her stool, earning the attention of the Imperial mage sitting not too far away. He was nursing a half-tankard of mead. “Interested in saving the world?”

“I thought me saving your life made us even for the bear,” he whined back.  
“Fair enough.” She turned back to them. “Just us, then.” Her hand found her spear and she stood, feeling her neck. “Are we done in this shithole?”

Serana nodded. Keerava appeared behind the counter, snatching the tankard away and shooing them like flies.  
“Yes, good! Leave! Leave!”

And so they left.

* * *

The stables were just beside the city gate, but Tharya didn’t stop them there. She paid the stablehand to take their horses back to Fort Dawnguard, and ignored Serana’s questions about where they were headed. The Last Dragonborn led them through the snow, past the tracks they had made on their way into Riften. They had been walking for barely an hour, the sun doing nothing to melt the snow that obstructed their path, when finally Tharya stopped. She tilted her head upwards, and then whipped around.

“Get off the road.” Miraak raised an eyebrow. When neither he nor Serana moved, Tharya trekked back, grabbed his robe, and yanked him to the side. “I said _get off the road._ ”

The sun disappeared behind a screen of towering evergreens. The snow here was covered in a thin layer of ice that crunched loudly beneath his boots. Tharya didn’t let go of his robe, instead taking them both to relative safety behind a tree thicker than what he could wrap his arms around.  
“ _Ahtlahzey-_ ” Her body slammed into him and tree, shoulder in the bark and back to his chest.  
“Shut up!” She snapped. The spear twirled, an action readily becoming familiar to him, and the spear tip pulsated. Its shine returned, slowly. Miraak didn’t know how long they stood there, the three of them pressed together like arrows in a quiver. His breathing matched the Last Dragonborn’s, her shoulders rising with his inhales. He had no “special sense”, but the road remained quiet. He felt no other presence: no other Daedra, no other _dovah_ , no other mages. They waited and waited and just when he was running out of patience, Tharya shifted forward.

She checked around the tree first, examining the road. Then she gestured for them to stay, and carefully tiptoed forward—as possible as it was to _tiptoe_ through a crust of ice—and finally, sighed.  
“They passed.”    
“Who?” Serana beat him to the question, following the Last Dragonborn out back onto the road.  
“Vampires.” Tharya leaned down to examine the footprints the travelers had left. Vampires? How could she know? She hadn’t even seen them.

“You’re paranoid,  _ahtlahzey_.” Miraak scoffed, shaking his head. He squinted for a moment against the sunlight, hearing Serana grumble under her breath. If Dragon Bridge was as far away as Tharya said, they had no time to be paranoid of a couple travelers on the road. “How do you know they were _vukul_?” Miraak questioned, his brow knit. Tharya glanced over her shoulder at him, a longing look in her eyes. She wanted to tell him something, but she was uncertain of...of what?

The Last Dragonborn shrugged and turned back around. Pretending not to hear him?

Serana looked worriedly between them, opening her mouth to speak and then closing it. Did she know?

“More importantly, how are we going to get to Dragon Bridge? You say it’s at least a week away.” This time, Tharya smiled. She motioned for them to step back, and then examined the clear skies. The noon sun beat back glaringly.

And then, the Last Dragonborn projected a thundering Shout into the calm sky:

**_O...daah viing!_ **

Vibrations assaulted the ground. The air became thick with not magic, but a power only he seemed to feel. The opaque, oval ring of her Thu’um disappeared into the blue of the sky above. Miraak searched his brain for the words that had left her lips. Three distinct syllables, like every other Shout: _o, daah, viing._ Snow, hunter, wing. It made no sense. That was no Shout he’d heard of, and if the list had changed in the past four thousand years, he would know. Snow, hunter, wing. _Wing._

It wasn’t a Shout. It was a name.  
  
As if to confirm his suspicions, a roar echoed throughout the Rift, bouncing off its cradle of mountains and carrying through its dense forests. A dragon. She had summoned a dragon. _Odaahviing._ He knew this name, this dragon she called at will. _Odahviing._ A dark figure blotted out the sun for a moment, wide wings spread, reddish scales gleaming in the sun. The dragon circled overhead and vaguely he heard Serana laughing in disbelief, Tharya saying something back to her. Miraak stumbled when the beast landed in front of the Last Dragonborn, who threw her arms around the end of his snout.  
“ _Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin._ ” He rumbled. His voice rang with familiarity, sending chills down his arms. He remembered Odahviing, remembered the fire raining from his mouth, the open dome of his temple crumbling down. And the raucous laughter as he flew off, satisfied with his work. “There has been much time since you last called me,  _fahdon_. _Zu’u fent aam._ I am at your command.”

Tharya’s hand fell to the scales between his nostrils, and with the other she made a flourishing gesture to Serana and Miraak. Miraak didn’t listen to her words. Odahviing’s gaze combed over the vampire and he huffed his approval, eyes coming next to the Dragon Priest.

He was glad for his reflexes in that moment. The magic had already sparked around his hands and the ward materialized just before the first flames licked him. The radius of snow around him vanished, victim to the dragonfire. It left him a little island of white. Briefly he heard Tharya yelling over the roar of flames. Serana ducked away, figuring the safest place was at the Last Dragonborn’s side. His ward held but begun to fade in strength after gods know how long, his boots scraping against the scorched stone road below. Inch by inch, he lost his ground, and just when the edges of the ward were flickering uncertainly, the attack halted.  
“ _Rok los tahrodiis, Dovahkiin!_ ” Odahviing cried, his great wings spread. “ _Kriaan!_ Slayer of my brethren!”

“And I will take your soul, just as I devoured theirs!” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. _Odahviing._ Oh, how he’d dreamed of driving his sword through that _lir’s_ heart. His hand dropped to his side again, disappointed at the missing feeling of a hilt connecting with his palm.  
“Hey— _hey!_ Everyone stop!” Tharya nearly screamed. Lightning crackled around Miraak’s fists. A roll of thunder left Odahviing’s chest. “Talos’s sweet flaming beard, both of you stop!” The spear tip came up, aimed threateningly in the Dragon Priest’s direction. Her hand replaced itself on Odahviing’s scales, pressing downwards.  
“He is _aan vax, Dovahkiin._ Surely you know.”  
“I’m well aware of what he’s done,” she replied, head swiveling between them. She nodded to his hands once, then again when the lightning didn’t dissipate. “But that was thousands of years ago.”

“The passage of _bok_ does not erase the scars of the past, _Dovahkiin._ ” Those words were meant as much for him as they were for her. He felt it. The dragon’s accusing stare never left him, never let go. No amount of time would ever heal the scars he bore, nor his actions in a world so far away it seemed like a dream.  
“Nor will it ever.” Tharya spoke again, struggling to maintain a fragile balance between them. “But there is much more at risk here than the past. The future of Tamriel is being threatened as we speak. That’s why I need you-”  
“I will carry you to glory on my wings, _Dovahkiin_ ,” Odahviing said proudly, drawing himself up, “but I will never take _Faal Grutiik._ ”

Frustration was quickly seeping into her features. In one easy motion, Tharya pulled Serana to her and spun the vampire around, grabbing at the Elder Scroll.  
“You see this _Kel?_ It is the key to our survival. Right now, there is _aan_ _vukul drog_ looking for this, because he wants to blow out the sun like a candle and end all life. He will usher in an era of darkness and death like you have never seen, _dii fahdon_. Vampires will rule, and Skyrim will fall. Tamriel after it. The dragons will either die or be enslaved. So you see why I have to stop him.”

“ _Faal Grutiik_ is not your ally, _Dovahkiin_ .”  
“He is.” Tharya insisted. “And if we have any chance at saving the world, you have to take us to Dragon Bridge. There’s a Moth Priest— _Rak Sonaak_ —he can read the _Kel_ for us and tell us how to stop the _vukul_.” Her Dovahzul was more fluent than he thought, flowing easily off her tongue. She hadn’t used it so much in the short time he’d known her, but with Odahviing, it seemed as if every other word was in Dragontongue.

Odahviing seemed to consider for a moment. He looked at the Elder Scroll, then to the two Dragonborns standing before him. Then, he exhaled slowly.  
“I do not know where this bridge of the _dovah_ you speak of is.” He slouched ever so slightly, bringing himself down to Tharya’s level.  
“Northwest of here, across the province.” She patted his scales for a moment before glancing back to Miraak. “You probably know it by another name. Its old name.”

A question formed on his lips but he didn’t speak. It was impossible to tell what would set Odahviing’s temper off again.  
“Which is?” The prompting came from Serana, who looked minutely impatient with all this arguing and standing around. She crossed her arms over her stomach. Tharya spared her a glance.

“ _Dohstrav.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (dii) fahdon - (my) friend/ally/companion  
> zu'u fent aam - i shall serve  
> Rok los tahrodiis - he is treacherous!  
> kriaan! - killer/slayer  
> aan vax - a traitor  
> bok - time  
> Faal Grutiik - "The Betrayer", (as i headcanon) the name given to Miraak after he defied the Cult  
> Kel - Elder Scroll(s)  
> aan vukul drog - a vampire (more formal translation); vampire lord ("drog")  
> Dohstrav - (thanks to @nusaran) the ancient name of Dragon Bridge, since (as i headcanon) it used to be a road to Bromjunnar used by the Cult. combination of the words "dragon" (dovah) and "road" (strah)


	6. Beneath a Moonless Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the group makes progress, finding their way to dragon bridge, tharya's plans for ulfric are voiced, serana is a little fed up and miraak forces tharya to reveal a darker truth about herself. he isn't entirely pleased. dovahzul translations at the end!

“Are you certain you trust _faal Grutiik_ , _Dovahkiin_?”

Miraak resisted the urge to groan. Odahviing hadn’t referenced him for the entire flight to Dohstrav—no, instead he had spoken to Tharya, inquired more about this end-all prophecy, told her about the remaining _dov_ and what they would do since Alduin was defeated. She advised them all to stay away from the cities until she could tell Skyrim that the dragons wouldn’t hurt them. Odahviing snorted.

 

He had set them down not far from the town, but safely out of view. The first thatched roofs were just a few steps away from being in view. He and Serana stood a ways away while Tharya said her goodbyes to the dragon, and just as he turned around to rush things along, Odahviing took to the skies.  
“Just down the road,” the Last Dragonborn breezed by them, gesturing with her staff down the road. “We’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen our Moth Priest.”

 

“Before we charge in there.” Tharya stopped them, pulled him out of his thoughts. She reached for the belt around her waist. He hadn’t even noticed it, but as it came undone, a scabbard appeared from the folds of her robe. “I kept this at the College because that’s where I thought I’d be for most of my life.” She rubbed her thumb over the red gem in the hilt, before letting the blade swing towards the snow and offering the hilt to him. “I’m not sure why I took it. But I think you’ll make better use of it than I will.”

 

He held her gaze before taking the sword. It was heavy with magic—an enchantment, maybe. He tossed it in his hand, bringing the blade full-circle with one slow motion of his wrist. It was different than what he had grown used to with Hermaeus Mora’s blade. Thinner, missing the open eye at the base of the blade. Not swarthing with tentacles. No, instead the blade glimmered with a faint, red pattern that faded away while he held it.  
“It sets things on fire,” she smiled, “and it belonged to one of my ancestors, so be careful.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard, but unhooked it from the belt and handed that back to her. The sword slid perfectly into place at his hip; secured by the belt that had been salvaged from his old robes. Now his hand would have something to flex around when Serana got too pushy.

The thought warmed him.  
“ _Dii kogaan_ , _ahtlahzey_.” He nodded, pressing his thumb to the red gem in the hilt. It didn’t sparkle as a ruby did. It was full in color, not particularly shiny. Like drying blood.

 

“Are we all armed now?” Serana asked, close enough to complaining. “This Moth Priest isn’t going to just show up unless we look for him.” Tharya shot her a look before turning, giving the Dragon Priest’s arm a knowing clap before taking her first steps down the road.

“ _Waan nunon Zu'u vust hel hi nau yol._ ” He muttered. Serana didn’t hear.

 

What Tharya called “Dragon Bridge” was a tiny, ghostly little town perched beside an ancient stone bridge with a dragon head carved into it. _These people are apt at naming things, aren’t they._ Miraak scanned the handful of houses that had gone up beside the sloping road. The inn was quiet but building in noise as more people filtered in. The sounds of splitting wood floated up from near the bridge. _Dohstrav._ It had once been greater than this, bigger, better. People had flocked to see the Dragon Priests on their way to Bromjunnar. He had traveled through here but once in his lifetime, but in Apocrypha Hermaeus Mora had shown him the events Orngeir had spoke of at the College. The other Priests smashing in his carving, destroying his likeness wherever it could be found. Erasing his name from their order for eternity. Forgetting him.

 

People hardly cast him a look as they meandered through town. Tharya stopped periodically, once at the inn, once at a house on the right, once to talk with a woman carrying a stack of firewood in her arms. She asked the same question to each, and each gave the same reply. No, they hadn’t seen a Moth Priest. Miraak doubted they even knew what a Moth Priest was.

 

“Ah, if it isn’t the slayer of the Wolf Queen!” A voice from behind them boomed. His hand dropped to his sword, fulfilled finally by the fact it had something to wrap around. The owner of the voice was a pale Nord, with bright eyes and charcoal hair. An iron greatsword adorned her back, glinting in the setting sun as she sauntered towards Tharya. Her accent was thick, northern. She was native.

“Ingrid,” the Last Dragonborn grinned, clasping the other woman’s forearm. She wore a padded leather cuirass with a a blue sash cutting diagonal around the torso. Two small goat horns had been fastened to the brow of her helmet. “Potema hasn’t returned since I’ve been back, has she?”  
“Not since the second time you defeated her, Stormblade.” Ingrid laughed. _Potema._ He’d heard of her, somewhere in the endless library of Apocrypha. Daughter of Pelagius III and a surprisingly powerful necromancer. He supposed those two things combined were already bad enough, but this _Ingrid_ spoke as if she’d been resurrected. And recently.

“Stormblade?” The question came from Serana, who was tapping her fingers against her arm. She wanted to move on. Tharya opened her mouth to reply, but the dark-haired Nord answered first:  
“Aye, kin of Ulfric Stormcloak. I’ve never seen a woman kill so many Imperials in my life. Certainly didn’t think a mage would best me, either.” Ingrid laughed again but this time, Tharya did not. She only cleared her throat and clapped Ingrid’s shoulder.  
“I’m afraid I’m on a bit of a schedule, so I just have a simple question for you.” She said to the soldier.  
“Stormcloak business?” Ingrid asked. Tharya said no.  
“Dragonborn business.”  
“Ah, right. Your side job.” She grinned.  
“I’m looking for a Moth Priest. He might’ve wandered through a few days ago, wearing a grey robe, maybe said something about an Elder Scroll. Have you seen him?”

 

Recognition flashed through the opposite woman’s eyes.  
“So _that_ was a Moth Priest?” She mused, gaze trained thoughtfully on the sky. “A man like the one you spoke of rode through here, not long ago. Had an armed escort with him,” Ingrid went on, her accent rough, “they didn’t stop, not even at the inn.”  
“Which way did they go?” Her attention swiveled to Miraak as he spoke, momentarily surprised. His accent matched hers; thick, northern, Nordic. But more articulated, more eloquent. She just sounded like she was trying to whisper and yell at the same time.  
“South across the bridge.”

Tharya met Miraak’s eyes, and then Serana’s. South. She glanced down the road to where the ancient bridge sat, waiting silently in the dying sunlight.  
“South it is, then.” She tapped her spear against the stone. “Make sure you have a drink for me.” She flipped Ingrid a septim and patted her arm again. The woman nodded.  
“Until next time, Stormblade.” Miraak watched her features fell into disdain as Ingrid turned, ambling away with squared shoulders. Tharya gestured for them to follow and stomped southbound down the road, dark robe billowing against the air.

 

“Kin to Ulfric Stormcloak?” Miraak strode forward, falling in beside her, “I thought you hated him, _ahtlahzey._ ”  
“Ulfric is a pompous, thickheaded bastard who I’m going to kick off the throne and kill if need be,” she responded quickly, “but after we won the war he named me _Stormblade._ His kin.” Miraak paused.  
“You’re going to kill a man considered to be your brother?”

“If I have to.”

“That _isn’t_ our main concern,” Serana shoved her way between them. “Right now we should be worrying about my father and his prophecy, and finding this Priest.”  
“We _are_.” The vampire turned to them just as they turned to each other, looks of surprise reflected back at one another. Their voices had been unison in that very moment, with matching tones of annoyance. Serana threw her hands up in defeat.  
“Whatever this thing is between you two, figure it out. I’m tempted to lock myself up and sleep for another couple centuries.”  
“Be my guest,” Miraak muttered. Tharya rolled her eyes.  
“Next time, wake up earlier, if you’re so concerned about time constraints.”

 

* * *

 

The stones of the bridge just outside Dohstrav were smooth and loose, the consequence of millennia worth of feet traveling over them. He hadn’t come here since what felt like the dawn of time. The last streaks of sunlight disappeared behind the mountains. Serana sighed from somewhere behind him as she took her hood down. He lingered as Tharya and the _vukul_ pushed ahead, gingerly dragging his fingers along the short stone pillars lining the bridge. They had been taller, once. Stone arches over the heads of travelers. But now they were crumbling, the stones pushed out of position so if one were to try and rebuild each arch, they’d have to scrap each child-sized pillar first. He remembered making the pilgrimage to Bromjunnar, along with Vahlok. When Vahlok had still been his brother.

 

Miraak’s eyes turned to the sky, clinging to the fading remnants of daylight, ushering in the soft darkness of night. What was he doing here? So far from home? A man out of time, a man in the wrong era. He didn’t belong here, yet here he stood. A part of him yearned to return to Solstheim, return to his temple. With Tharya around, he could never resurrect his plan of taking the world under his boot, but he could live in his temple, restore it. Perhaps replace his name in all the history books that had first forgotten him. Reinstate his mark on the world. Another part of him wished he had died so long ago. That Vahlok’s flaming, ethereal blade had run him through the heart, not the leg, and taken his life so that he may have ascended—or perhaps, descended. There was no place above for men like him.  
  
“I take it you’ve been here before,” the Last Dragonborn said from his side. Miraak fitted his hand against the worn stone block, breathing a sigh that sounded immensely more forlorn than he intended.  
“ _Daar fost ont lost lot._ ” He mused quietly, closing his eyes for a second. With the right magic, he could show her. If he wanted to. He could give the Last Dragonborn the insight of the First, let her see the world he had lived in. What Dohstrav had looked like before it became a little town with a name bigger than it. “Not anymore.” His golden eyes found Serana, waiting at the end of the bridge. Tharya looked there too, then back at him. There was sympathy in her eyes. At first he regarded it as pity. But then she reached out to pat his arm, and turned away.  
“Whenever you’re ready.” She said softly. She was not rushing him? The steady click of her spear as she walked faded. He had wasted enough time already, lingering like a sentimental ghost. A chilled breeze rolled up from the river below, wiping away the past and bringing him back to the present. Without another word, he let his hand slip away from the pillars of his time and followed Tharya the rest of the way across the bridge.

 

* * *

 

Serana saw it first: the overturned cart, the silhouettes of bodies in the road.  
“There, just up ahead. Can you see it?”  
“No,” Tharya grunted, quickening her pace, “is our Moth Priest there?”  
“Wait!” Serana rushed in front of her. “What if it’s a trap? We’ve already been attacked once on the road.”  
The Last Dragonborn seemed to weigh this idea for a moment, before turning her nose to the wind. Everything was silent for a second, and Tharya said nothing. Miraak watched closely.  
“There’s no vampires around.” She declared. “And I doubt they’d lay a trap so close to town.” She gestured back to Dohstrav, where the lights in windows and the bobbing torches of guards could still be seen. Miraak again wondered just _what_ it was she was keeping from him. The Last Dragonborn gestured for them to follow, moving forward on her toes. Her spear remained dim in the darkness of night, illuminated only by the moon.

 

The blood was still fresh when Miraak crouched to feel it. The cart was on its side, no horse in sight. Two soldiers in uniform unknown to him were thrown haphazardly across each other, drenched in each other’s blood. Their eyes were wide open, mouths parted in yells that would be lost to time. Gingerly, the Dragon Priest closed their eyes. Even if he was a man out of time, he was still a Priest, and his duty to the dead and dying remained.  
“ _Nok, dii zeymah_.” He murmured. “ _Hin sil engein_ —” he paused. He supposed their souls didn’t belong to Alduin, nor the Dragon Cult since it was gone and the World-Eater vanquished. “ _Hin sil engein wah Bormahu nu_.” _Your souls belong to Akatosh now._ It seemed fitting.  
“This _was_ an ambush.” Tharya murmured, surveying the corpses. A third one lay not too far away, but dressed in the same robes as Serana. _Vukul_. He had no duty to nightcrawlers. But Serana crouched beside the vampire’s body, examining its face for a moment. “I don’t see our Moth Priest anywhere. He may have gotten away.” The Last Dragonborn said as Miraak stood. He doubted it, although there was some truth to her words: there was no man in a grey robe, and no Elder Scroll in view. “These men,” she went on, touching one soldier’s ribs with her foot, “their armor is not Imperial. They came directly from Cyrodiil.” Dark steel segmented armor with red and brown pteruges, hide helmets with cheek protectors. Swords scattered in the grass. They were well equipped, and the strength of Cyrodiil’s legion had been boasted throughout history; it was impossible to believe they had been felled by one vampire.

 

“She was carrying a note.” Serana returned to the Dragonborns, a creased paper in her hand. “Orders, it seems like. ‘Prepare an ambush just south of Dragon Bridge—take the Moth Priest to Forebears’ Holdout for safekeeping. His will begs to be broken.’ Signed, Malkus.” She looked up from the paper.  
“Forebears’ Holdout.” Tharya repeated slowly, trying to recall a map in her mind. “I don’t know where that is.” Serana groaned.  
“Your staff does, _ahtlahzey_.” Miraak gestured to the weapon.  
“A lightning strike like the one in Riften would tell half of Tamriel where we need to go and just how to get there.” She replied. Miraak instantly felt stupid; of _course_ . He was the Atmoran, the legendary Dragonborn, the strongest mage in Tamriel. He should’ve known that. “Unless...unless we mask it somehow.” Her clear eyes returned to the First Dragonborn. “If I use my staff, and if you use the _strun faan_ Shout, we can make it seem like a storm. Can’t we? Just another thing of nature.”  
“You’re going to make it rain? Don’t we have all this walking to do?” Serana pointed out, gesturing to the flat planes and and rolling hills around them.  
“It is just as easy to clear the skies, _vukul_ ” Miraak chided. The plan was simplistic, almost _dumbly_ so. But it would work, wouldn’t it? He could Shout at just the right moment, and every cloud within twenty miles in each cardinal direction would go black and spew rain onto Skyrim. Lightning would light the skies, and the spear’s strike would not give them away.  
  
“You all think too hard.” Serana laughed, and then pointed to the road. “There’s a trail of blood. I’m sure the scent—” she paused before picking back up, quickly, to cover her mistake, “I’m sure we can follow it. Trails of blood always lead somewhere.”

“No.” Miraak stepped forward. The _scent?_ Were they suddenly a pack of hounds? Tharya looked uncomfortable, so he fixed his oppressive gaze on her. He was a Dragon Priest; he knew how to make people break. “Whatever secret you’re keeping, _ahtlahzey_ , I demand to know.” Tharya snorted.  
“Oh, you _demand_ ? As if you’re in a position to be making demands.” She retorted.  
“I am.” He said bitterly. “Since it was you who brought me into this wretched world, I deserve to know what you’re keeping from me.”  
“Wait, so...he doesn’t know?” Serana gestured vaguely between them.  
“No, I do not.”  
“No, he doesn’t. Nor does he _need to_.”  
“You cannot keep secrets from me, _ahtlahzey_.”  
“Whatever right you think you have, you’re wrong.”  
“ _Ahtlahzey-_ ”  
 _"Strin vok_!”

He froze, blood boiling in his veins. He had _every_ right. He deserved to know. Whatever she did affected him, now, ever since she had made the careless decision to pull him out of Apocrypha. Now her business was his. Miraak held her gaze without faltering, his mouth closed, but prepared to spit back at her in Dovahzul. Finally, she shrugged, running a hand through her golden brown hair.  
“ _Zu'u los aan vuhiik_.”

His breath caught in his chest; he felt as if he’d been stabbed.

She...she was a _werewolf?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie this chapter took me forever so i apologize, but i was also too lazy to edit so maybe some small revisions later on. :) SATs are coming up so i'm not sure how much writing i'll be able to do
> 
> dii kogaan - my thanks/my gratitude  
> Waan nunon Zu'u vust hel hi nau yol - if only i could set you on fire  
> Daar fost ont lost lot - this bridge was once great  
> Nok, dii zeymah - rest, my brothers  
> strun faan - storm call (the shout)  
> strin vok - shut up (literally "close up")  
> Zu'u los aan vuhiik - I am a werewolf (there is no word for werewolf in dovahzul so i combined "night", vulon, and "wolf", grohiik, to get vuhiik. makes sense since vampires are "vukul/nightcrawlers".)


	7. a/n

everyone i PROMISE a new chapter soon—school has been awful and stressful and i’ve not been able to write at length for some time. but i’m on spring break this week, so i plan to get SO MUCH WRITING DONE. thank you for bearing with me!


	8. The Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miraak is forced to come to terms with tharya's lycanthropy, whether he wants to or not. tharya's spear is suprisingly practical. vampires die as the group closes in on Malkus and the Moth Priest.

"You." He rumbled. "You defiled the name of Dovahkiin?"

"It's not your name. It's mine, and it isn't defiled."

"You sold yourself to a Daedric Prince!"

"I'm not some common whore! I didn't sell myself to anyone, you arrogant bastard."

" _Lingraav hin vun, ahtlahzey_! Do you know who you're speaking to?" He snapped, whipping around to face her. They were standing opposite one another in the ankle-deep snow, Serana remaining on the road.

"I do," she spat back, lumbering forward. Her knuckles were white on the spear. "A four thousand year old piece of shit who's been clinging to my boots for too long."

Ice touched his veins, flooding the chambers of his heart. A Shout rose in his chest, debilitating, fatal. A breath of Atmoran winter to chill her blood, to freeze her body, to kill. It rose and grew and then, he let it die. His Thu'um could only be broken by hers, and by then half of Skyrim would fall Oblivion.

"You are nothing without this spear, Tharya." With one swift motion he knocked it out of her hand. The first time he'd ever said her name. It felt refreshing, a new burst of life, a flicker of warmth in the cold in his Atmoran blood. But it was the wrong fire. A raging inferno that had spiraled out of his control instead of the campfire he'd fallen asleep to so many nights before.

 

Before he could go on, her fist connected with his jaw with such a strength behind it, Vahlok would've been proud. Miraak hit the snow with a grunt, his skin burning. His fingers went frigid and wet. He sat up almost instantly, but a foot slammed onto his chest and pressed his shoulders downwards.

"I saved your ass without a spear. I'll do it again and again if I have to. I better not have to." She leaned down, shifting weight onto her foot. He groaned, hands clamping around her ankle. "But do not, for one second, think me so stupid as to hand over my soul without a plan. _Miraak_."

His heart stopped. Her toes shifted onto his throat.

"I pulled you out of Apocrypha." He swallowed thickly. "This _skah_ , this taint in my blood is not for you to worry about. It has saved you more than once, and it has saved me." The rage was gone from her eyes. She was trying to make him understand. " _Sahvot ko zey_." The weight of the Last Dragonborn's foot disappeared, and Miraak sucked in an embarrassingly desperate gulp of air. His temples were pounding, ears ringing. For the first time in eternal seconds, his chest expanded to breath. She offered her hand to him, and after a moment of weak breathing he took it and stood.

Her hands came to his face, flushed red with a sudden burst of circulation. Her fingers were warm. Snow melted against his beard.

"Have faith in the ones who can smell your fear, _dii mul gein_. They will be the ones who best protect you."

 

Fear. Perhaps that's what had tightened in his chest. Perhaps that's what made his breath tremble as she stood before him. Giving his cheek a hearty pat, the Last Dragonborn picked her spear out of the snow and twirled it on her fingers.

“Miraak. What a lyrical name.”

They stood there for an age, staring at each other, able to see each crack in her warpaint and each inch of scar on his face. Close. Their faces closer, breathing in each other’s breaths. _How easy_ , he thought, _how easy would it be-_

And with that, she trudged away, snow crunching underfoot, mumbling his name like a summer breeze over and over again.

 

* * *

 

Forebears’ Holdout was a short trek southeast, across another bridge and a whispering river. Not a dragon bridge, though. Tharya was the first to create distance between the three of them, charging ahead across the bridge and nearly vanishing into the dark woods. Serana tried to match her pace. Miraak trailed behind. The fragile alliance that had kept the three of them together was suffering. No longer at risk of revealing her secret, Tharya stopped every so often and put her nose to the ground. The same way she had done days ago, during their journey to Fort Dawnguard...suddenly it made sense. He had thought she was looking for stones, for a road, or markers of some sort. A trail. How stupid he was.

 

From his point behind both women, he could keep track of Tharya’s golden hair in the dim moon. The moon he checked every so often, as if the phase would suddenly change, the moon would become full, and her golden hair would be swallowed up. But perhaps, she could control it? Perhaps the _vuhiik_ had evolved just as the _vukul_ had, from hideous, decaying men into ageless phantoms. What the _vuhiik_ once were—beasts with the remnants of men attached, sometimes with heads or limbs, sometimes torn flesh that gave way to thick skin and matted hair—were not what Tharya was. An _ahtlahzey_ , a Dragonborn, a woman. With skin, calloused hands but warm fingers. Her flesh was whole. Her eyes were not clouded. Her hair was golden brown, more vibrant when the sunset caught it just so, and her eyes were like the clear ponds that used to dot Solstheim before the Red Mountain buried it in layers of ash. She was not _vuhiik._ Or at least not the ones he had known, hunted, executed so many centuries ago. She was...she was _ahtlahzey_.

 

He was the last to reach the three standing pillars that stood at the mouth of a cave. His feet had carried him on Tharya’s trail, even as his mind wandered.   
“Is this it?” Serana was asking. Tharya turned away from the cave’s shadowed entrance and shrugged, gesturing to her staff. It was pulsating, slowly, and each pulse gave it the glow they had come to recognize.   
“This is where the—the scent leads.” She said carefully, eyeing Miraak for any kind of outburst. He only gave a delayed nod. “I think it’s safe to say our Moth Priest is still alive in there, but there’s a hell of a lot of vampires around him.”   
“Then we have to get rid of them. Carefully.” Serana opened her palm and a red spell flickered between her fingers. “They may try to use him as bait.”   
“Or collateral.”   
Both women’s eyes fell on the Dragon Priest. He said nothing more.   
“Either way, our objective should be the Moth Priest. Agreed? No heroics,” she flipped her staff so the glowing spear tip was pointing forwards. “If either of you get to him first, take him and go. Wait at Dohstrav, and we’ll catch up when we can.” Miraak watched her carefully as she spoke; she was giving orders, not speaking to them. Laying out a plan, and a backup, a safe fallback. If Ingrid hadn’t been enough proof, the Last Dragonborn had seen her fair share of battles, done her fair amount of soldiering.

 

With silence, the three of them nodded and one by one, disappeared into the cave.

 

* * *

 

The first light they came upon was dim and dying, nothing more than hot coals in a standing brazier. They passed it quietly, and then came upon a second. Brighter and shedding a larger ring of light than the other, this one was placed at the opening to a much, much bigger underground chamber. It looked to be home to ruins of some sort, well-preserved in the unchanging cool atmosphere below ground. Lit by smaller fires and torches. Nordic, _maybe_. But that was merely a guess.

 

Tharya’s arm flew out to stop him, curling into his robes and yanking him back with her against the wall. With luck, the brazier would obscure their silhouettes, should anyone decide to look their way.  
“This is where _no heroics_ gets emphasized,” she whispered, refusing to let go of him. Cautiously, she turned her head so she could address them both. “Stay in the shadows, and with luck they won’t see this goddamn beacon of a spear. I’ll go ahead.”   
“ _Ahtlahzey-_ ”   
“I’ll go ahead,” she repeated, giving him a pointed look. After peeking around the brazier once more, Tharya stepped out and vanished around the corner. Miraak closed his fist around the flames dancing in his hand. Their crackle became noiseless. After what felt like another thousand years of waiting, he glanced to Serana, and then gestured for her to go first.   
“They’re more likely to attack me than one of their own, _vukul_. Go. I will follow.” She hesitated, and then took Tharya’s route around the corner and down into the darkness. Miraak didn’t wait so long this time.

 

Serana and the Last Dragonborn were hidden behind one of the old pillars that didn’t quite reach the ceiling. In one swift motion, he ducked behind it as well.  
“What is that... _dog_ thing?” Tharya was peering around the ancient rock.   
“A death hound,” Serana whispered back, “vampire’s best friend, supposedly.” With the utmost care, Miraak guided his blade slowly from its sheath.   
“Are they easy to kill?” Tharya stood, pushing herself back into the pillar. Serana shrugged. With a roll of her eyes that was lost to the darkness between them, the Last Dragonborn flexed her fingers, and an orb of blackish-purplish magical energy materialized into a bow of the same color. An ethereal quiver flickered into existence on her shoulder; magic radiated from her being. A Bound weapon. “So let me ask again: can I kill it with _this?_ ” Serana gauged the weapon for a moment, before saying:   
“Probably.”   
“ _Probably._ ” The Nord repeated. She was still for a moment before grumbling something under her breath, and shuffling forward ever so slightly. Miraak held his breath. Her fingers locked around one phantom arrow and brought it to notch against the bow. Every movement was slow, precise, calculated. A mistake now could cost them everything. He inhaled deeply, the crackle of magic filling the air, and watched as Tharya shut one eye, taking another risky step forward, and then—

 

A minute whimper reached his ears.

 

She returned to the shadow as quickly as possible, returning the Bound bow to her back where it dissipated into the air. Her foot flicked her spear up from the ground, returning it to her hand. In the tense silence, a sturdy _shiiiink-click_ resonated throughout the chamber. She nearly dropped the spear again.

“What the _hell_?”

When he looked, the weapon had collapsed inwards, staff side and spear alike sliding into the middle, where veins of gold stretched into the red wood.  
“How did you do that?” Serana hissed.   
“I don’t know!” Tharya gestured frantically to the weapon, now at least a tenth of its previous size. Her grip shifted on it and with another loud _click_ , the two ends shot out, like a triggered booby trap. “What...what _is_ this thing?”   
“Perhaps Auri-El is not so stupid after all,” Miraak mumbled to himself. The spear would glow in the presence of unholy beings: Daedra, vampires, wraiths and the like. But it was _collapsible._ Thus, the glow could be contained...and with it, their location kept secret. Perhaps it wasn’t such a homing beacon after all.

 

But now was not the time to discuss the Last Dragonborn’s widely mysterious weapon, and she knew this. Tharya tucked it into her belt, below her robe. Light still shone through the fibers, but only if one was looking. She stored her confusion and relative excitement for another time, and gestured for them to move forward. They traveled quickly and quietly across a bridge, with railings too elegant and too clean for this to be an abandoned Nordic ruin as Miraak first thought. The stones were smooth and swept, and they looked as if they had been laid yesterday. The death hound she had shot had been reduced to a pile of gooey, smoking ectoplasm. He resisted the urge to gag as he stepped over it.

 

They stuck close to the wall and crept along the bank of the stream, soft soil squishing underfoot. Every step forward was a gamble. Adrenaline fed his veins. Tharya paused at the corner again, poking her head around before quickly withdrawing.  
“One at the fire,” she breathed, “if there’s any more, I can’t see them.” She waited for affirmative glances from both Miraak and Serana before taking the first hesitant steps forward. She threw her hands open and a familiar purple magic enveloped them. The Bound arrow found its way through the vampire’s throat, and with a strained gasp he fell forward onto the fire.   
“What was that?”

Miraak was first to the Last Dragonborn’s side, magic crackling at his fingertips. The wooden creak of a bow was cut short. His spell snaked around the second vampire’s neck and squeezed, and he watched intently as she struggled for air, unable to make a sound. They didn’t need to alert any other _vukul_ of their intrusion. He closed his fist; he could’ve sworn he saw Serana shudder when the _snap_ reached her ears.

 

Tharya spared him an appreciative glance, before gesturing across the open area to a ruined staircase that sat just above another burning fire.   
“Wait!” They both whipped around, following Serana’s pointing finger to a dark silhouette. It was perched on the top of the ruin’s wall above their heads, hunched, unmoving.   
“What-   
“Gargoyle,” Serana said lowly.   
“Ooh, a big stone bat.”   
“They _are_ alive. Just asleep.”

The Last Dragonborn froze.

“Well. Let’s not wake it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lingraav hin vun - hold your tongue/watch your tongue  
> sahvot ko zey - have faith in me


	9. The Moth Priest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this entire chapter is a bad excuse for avoiding writing a fight scene. *deadpool looks into the camera* now that's just lazy writing

“I will resist you, monster! I...I _must!_ ”

The shout made them all stop breathing, almost the whole way up the curved stairs that led to an overhang of earth. The voice echoed throughout the cavern, bouncing back to them. Tharya peered over the top step, before quickly pressing her back to the stone wall.  
“I’d say that’s our Moth Priest,” she breathed, “but he’s contained in some kind of magical barrier. There’s three vampires--one of them is holding some kind of...glowing stone.”

Miraak raised an eyebrow. He had yet to meet a magical barrier he couldn’t break through. The Dragon Priest, still crouching, moved away from the wall and copied Tharya’s actions to peek over the top of the stairs.  
“A Weystone,” he murmured back to them, “it controls the barrier. It must be deactivated in order to bring the barrier down.”  
“We can’t just destroy it?”  
“No.” He said quickly. “Doing so will give us no way of setting the _Rak Sonaak_ free. Weystones are not a commodity, _ahtlahzey_.” Serana rolled her eyes.  
“Give me your spear.” She held her palm out to Tharya. The Last Dragonborn gave her the most skeptical look of the ages. “Come on. I can go up there and distract them. I need your spear.”

“It would be foolish of you to assume you are capable of wielding it,” Miraak put in, “the spear reacts to...unholy beings.” He paused for a second before raising his palm to the dim light, the diagonal burn across his palm entirely visible. “And it rejects those who are not _ahtlahzey_.”  
“Fine,” Serana grumbled, “I can go up there and cause a distraction. They won’t attack me if they know I’m a vampire. You guys can sneak in; there’s two other thralls up there with him.” Tharya thought for a tense moment.  
“It’s a terrible plan, but fine.”

“Would you rather just storm in there and make a bloodbath?”  
“Actually, yes.”

 

* * *

 

“Malkus, I presume?” Serana’s voice rang strong throughout the ruin, and the two Dragonborns crept up the stairs to watch. “My name is Serana, the daughter of Lord Harkon.”  
“My lady,” Malkus replied. By his tone, gruff and guttural, he was an Orc. “I wasn’t informed you were awake.”  
“Quite a mess you made on the road, Malkus.” She said pointedly. “I hope you won’t be so careless again. Come. We need to speak.”

Tharya tracked her movements as she led the Orc away, surveying the rest of the overhang. Besides the Moth Priest, there were two more vampire sentries stationed around him. Serana led Malkus to the edge of the stone plateau, overlooking the river.

Tharya immediately turned to Miraak, a command on her lips, but he wasn’t there. The Last Dragonborn stared at the empty space for a moment before a presence of magicka brushed by her, and a faint shimmer distorted the torch light across the ruin.  
“You have an _invisibility spell_?” She hissed, hoping that presence in front of her belonged to Miraak. He made no reply but instead moved forward. His _dov_ left her vicinity.

 

Disgruntled, the Last Dragonborn tried her best to keep track of him. There was always a faint shimmer of magic when it came to invisibility, but it was incredibly hard to find. Even harder to stay with. The Bound bow returned to her hands, its ghastly cool touch familiar to her fingertips. One arrow extracted, then notched against the phantom bow. Loosed. Buried in the first vampire’s neck; he fell to the floor none too gracefully. Miraak’s hunched form stepped out of his invisible shroud and one hand shot out, bathed in crimson magic, and the second body fell like a tower. _Show off._  
“What the--who are you?” The voice came from the Moth Priest, trapped still behind his barrier. He was scrambling to stand up, eyes fixed on Miraak. Tharya watched as Malkus’s head swiveled back to look at him, eyes settling on the Dragon Priest.  
“You really don’t know a rescue mission when you see one, do you?” Tharya groaned as she exited the shadows, collapsed spear in one hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re here for the Moth Priest. We have an Elder Scroll that needs reading.”  
“He’s not up for sale,” the vampire spat, shifting in front of Serana. “Be wary, my lady. These two reek of dragonblood.”  
“Could we borrow him, then?” Tharya shrugged. “Just for one scroll.”  
“The only price I’d accept in return is your lives.” Malkus grinned.  
“Well, that’s a shame.” The Last Dragonborn moved cautiously forward, her eyes never leaving the vampire’s. “Serana, give him our terms.”

Before she had reached the last word, the sickening _squelch_ of skin overpowered her. Malkus gave a low groan, stumbled forward, and dropped. A worn steel dagger stuck out of his spine.

Miraak was first to search him, finding the Weystone in the confines of his robes. It was just as big as his palm, dark grey rock with swirling veins of vibrant blue and a leather band around the center.  
“ _Rak Sonaak,_ ” he approached the barrier, “where did the _vukul_ put this to activate your cage?”  
“Just up those stairs--what did you call me?” The Moth Priest asked, gesturing vaguely behind Miraak. The First Dragonborn took the worn steps two at a time and the Weystone disappeared from view, its glow intensifying, illuminating his features. With a low hum, the barrier flickered and then dispersed.  
“ _Rak Sonaak_ ,” Tharya called, circling the pillars that had held the barrier in place. They were of the same coloration as the Weystone, their blue veins now dimmed. “My name is Tharya. We’re with-”  
“You...you’re the Dragonborn!” The older man cried, his eyes going wide. “You saved us all from Alduin, did you not? Stopped the dragons from rising?”  
“Well...yes. Not many people know about Alduin, though. How do you-”  
“I’m a Moth Priest!” He yelled, almost sounding jubilant. “We devote ourselves to the Elder Scrolls, but my colleagues and I considered ourselves lucky to exist in the same time as such a...savior like yourself. We followed your adventures _very_ closely.”

“That still doesn’t explain-”  
“We have sketches of you from a friend who visited the College of Winterhold. Yes, even some of the Imperials are eager to know their Nordic hero.” The man gave a toothy smile, but the Last Dragonborn didn’t look impressed. There was a moment of damp silence, before she gave him a pointed stare.  
“Are you done interrupting me?” She asked sharply.  
“Yes, yes, my apologies, Dragonborn.” He half-bowed to her, eliciting a face of mild disgust from the Nord.  
“Come on then. We’re getting out of here.”

 

The trek back through the cavern was filled with the Priest’s constant chatter. Miraak fought the urge to cut his tongue out, if only to make him shut up. He seemed to suck all the oxygen from the air surrounding him, forming an unbreathable bubble that no one dared cross into. Tharya grunted and replied minimally when appropriate from the front of the group.

 

* * *

 

The night air was cool and welcoming on his senses. Miraak inhaled deeply, ridding himself of the stuffy underground air. The night was open, free. Masser inched at a snail’s pace across the blanket of stars, Secunda gliding in its wake.  
“What’s your name then, Moth Priest?”

The man scurried forward to fall into step beside the Last Dragonborn.  
“Dexion Evicus, Dragonborn,” the man replied, “Moth Priest of the White Gold Tower.”  
“And how did you find yourself in the hands of vampires?”  
“Word reached the Tower of the Dragonborn’s victory, but the stories were...conflicting. I had worked most closely with dragon history and lore beforehand, so I volunteered to seek you out myself. I heard rumors of an Elder Scroll that may have been in your possession for a brief time.” Dexion shrugged. Miraak looked up at that-- _dragon history and lore--_ and one eyebrow lifted. A question came to his lips, but Tharya cut him off.  
“Well, Dexion, we’re with the Dawnguard, you may have heard of them. We’re seeking out a Moth Priest to read _aan Kel_ for us.”  
“The _Dawnguard?_ I’d no idea the order had been reformed.”  
“Neither did I, until a couple days ago,” Tharya muttered. She gestured with her spear to Serana, walking a few meters away to her right. “My friends here are Serana, of Clan Volkihar,” she glanced back to Miraak, “and Miraak.” He frowned.

 

Dexion stopped dead in his tracks.  
“ _Miraak_?” He echoed, staggering back. “The Dragon Priest? You—you should be _dead_!”  
“And alas, he is not.” Serana grumbled from the rear.

“You...you are _both_ Dragonborn, then?” the Moth Priest looked flabbergasted. “The Tower has only known of the one.”  
“He’s new.” Tharya said after a moment of consideration.  
“ _Niid_ , I am not, _ahtlahzey_.” Miraak butt in. He didn’t know why, truth be told. He could just let the man wonder. It was unlikely he’d survive the entire ordeal with these vampires, so what use was it in telling him? “My name is Miraak, and I am _Diist Dovahkiin_. The First Dragonborn.”

Dexion’s eyes went wide.  
“I studied you, you know, and your involvement with the Dragon Cult. We thought, perhaps you had used an Elder Scroll to escape punishment. The oldest of records say you disappeared just before another Dragon Priest laid the killing blow. Perhaps your case was one similar to Alduin’s. Perhaps you had thrown yourself forward in time, having planned to do so if the Cult came after you, I...I can’t believe it! My theory is true! Oh, the Tower will have a fit, for sure-”  
“Your theory is not true.” Miraak grunted, glancing over his shoulder at the older man. His gaze shifted to Tharya. “I have never possessed _aan Kel_. I was imprisoned, just as your stories say.” Dexion’s excitement faded.

 

“So...Morokei’s accounts are wrong, then.”  
The First Dragonborn spun on his heel to face the Imperial, golden eyes glaring down.  
“You have Morokei’s writings?” He demanded. _Morokei_. How long had it been since that name had been spoken to him? Centuries, at least. Morokei. He could still imagine the other Priest’s handwriting, with jagged curves. He could still remember Morokei writing away at his desk when Miraak was nothing more than a child, he could still remember...  
“Y-yes! We found them years ago, on an expedition to Solstheim. The Tower wasn’t pleased with my theory, but I begged them to let me go. And I found Morokei’s writings, transcribed them myself. Please, you must tell me what happened! If Morokei’s words are wrong, _someone_ must know the truth.”

 

 _“Someone must know the truth_. _”_

 _Vahlok raised an inquisitive eyebrow._  
_“Is that why you write so much, Morokei?”_ _  
“Yes, mal dovah.” The older man chuckled gently. He twisted around in his chair, the wood creaking lowly. “My writing will shed truth on our great enterprise, when it is looked back upon by future generations.”_

 _Miraak frowned. Our great enterprise, future generations?_  
_“The Cult will never fall.” He said briskly from his spot against the wall. Morokei’s silver streaked head lifted towards him, old eyes softening. His lips hesitated before he spoke._  
_“Not with you as First Mage, mal dovah.” Little dragon. How he hated that nickname. It had fit, once, as a boy. But he was not a boy anymore. Morokei could not treat him like a child when he was named First Mage. “But you must go now, dii kuls. Miraak is to be blessed in the eyes of all dovah at dawn, and I am old. I must sleep.” He closed his journal softly, feather quill left on the desk. Vahlok rose from the bed and bowed his head._ _  
“Of course,” he turned with an optimistic grin to Miraak, “my brother is to become First Mage tomorrow. We should all sleep.”_

 

“-Miraak?” Fingers curled gently around his forearm. “Are you with me, big guy?” He recognized Tharya’s voice first as his senses flooded back to reality. The beat of his heart, the scent of fresh dirt and fire. Crisp night air hitting his neck, his lips. Where was his mask?  
“Yes, _ahtlahzey_.” He shrugged his arm away and quickly turned, trudging past Serana and back towards Dohstrav. “I am with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rak Sonaak - Moth Priest  
> dii kuls - my sons  
> aan Kel - Elder Scroll(s)


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know some people were disappointed by the last chapter (lmao kicking myself enough about it don't worry) so there will be minor revisions coming. hope this one isn't as disappointing in terms of lack of action and excitement, but the idea for a little interlude like this popped into my head and here we are. :)

“I’m impressed you could find a Moth Priest so quickly.” Were Isran’s first words to her. Her cheeks were red, breath still steaming even after they entered the fort. Tharya narrowed her eyes, unable to discern if he was being sarcastic or not.

“If I had known I’d have to come back and deal with your shit, I would’ve left him in the _blizzard_ outside.” She quipped back, shaking snow from her hair and rubbing her hands together. Dexion staggered forward, wrapped in her mage robe and shivering.   
“Dexion, this is Isran, the bastard I told you about. Isran, Dexion.” She hurriedly introduced the two men, tugging her robe away from Dexion’s shoulders. With a surprised gasp the Moth Priest shrugged it off, handing it back to her.   
“You can read the Elder Scroll for us?” Isran demanded gruffly, his pointed gaze shifting to the Imperial.   
“That is what the Dragonborn rescued me to do.” Dexion said through chattering teeth, rubbing his arms furiously.

“Good,” Isran nodded without hesitation, looking to Serana, “bring it here.”  
“ _Tomorrow_.” Tharya shook her head, waving her cold hands around as if to dismiss all talk of reading the Scroll now. “My bones are frozen, I can barely cast.”   
“You assume you are important to the operation, Dragonborn.” Isran raised an eyebrow. “The Dawnguard has functioned perfectly before you even came here.”

 

Miraak watched as her steely gaze locked onto the dark-skinned man, the wind howling like a pack of wolves outside. He would be lying if the cold hadn’t seeped into his skin as well, hunger clawing at his stomach. His eyes were becoming harder to keep open. Without a doubt, he would answer the call if the Dawnguard needed him to. But if there was a chance for a meal, a chance to sleep beforehand...

“Do what you want. I’m not helping until I’ve eaten and regained feeling in my fingers.” Tharya said. Her voice had lost its edge, but no one else seemed to notice.

 

The Last Dragonborn stomped away, leaving tracks of melting snow towards the mess hall. It was a huge, cavernous wing of the fort, bordered by a dog kennel, a troll pen, and a blacksmith tucked into a little alcove. Celann was already sitting at the table, surrounded by an Orc and another woman.  
“By the Eight, Thar, you look frozen.” The Breton proclaimed, scooting down the bench and gesturing for the Dragonborn to sit. She took the chair at the head of the table instead, and Miraak occupied the space beside her friend, Serana directly across.

“Nine,” the Last Dragonborn muttered. She pulled a tankard towards her and peered into it, promptly draining the contents. With a minutely surprised look, Celann refilled it, and pushed a plate loaded with roasted salmon, leeks, chopped carrots, and a wedge of hard bread towards her. Serana waved off the food offered and instead it fell to Miraak.

His stomach growled.  
  
“I heard you found our Moth Priest,” the woman spoke up finally, turning herself to converse with Tharya. “He’ll read that thing on your back?” She looked to Serana.   
“An Elder Scroll.” Tharya clarified, ripping a piece of bread away. “It contains a prophecy that’ll supposedly save us all. Who are you?”   
“Sorine Jurard, Dragonborn. Isran recruited me to make schematics and improve your weapons.” Tharya merely grunted in reply. Silence settled over the table for barely a minute, before Celann piped up:   
“Where was he? The Moth Priest?”   
“Outside of Dragon Bridge.” The Last Dragonborn was shoveling salmon into her mouth. “Captured by some vampires.”   
“Vampires?”   
“Vampires.”   
“And you saved him?”   
“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”   
“How did you-”   
“Stendarr’s mercy, Celann, can I eat in peace or do I have to be interrogated first?”

 

Across the room, the fire popped angrily.  
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Serana offered, standing and moving away from the table. She gestured for Celann, Sorine and the Orc to follow her. “We flew a dragon there, you know.”   
“A dragon?”   
“Oh, yeah. Big one. He flew us all the way to Dragon Bridge...”

Miraak watched the four retreating figures vanish somewhere into the fort, Serana’s voice slowly dying out. His golden eyes came to settle on Tharya, viciously rubbing her temples.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at him.” She groaned finally, leaning back in her chair. The rosiness of her cheeks was being replaced with the telltale pale of cold, hair still glistening with the last remnants of the blizzard. Her boots made a faint _squelch_ when she placed them on the floor, legs outstretched.   
“You are weary, _ahtlahzey_.” He replied. His voice was gentle, uncharacteristically soft. It almost didn’t sound like him. “You have done more for these people in a week than they will ever do for you in a lifetime.” She snorted bitterly, gazing at him for a moment before looking towards the dwindling fire. Her body seemed to relax into the chair, eyes drooping before she jolted and formed a reply:   
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not doing it for them.”

He only hummed.

 

Her selflessness was startling. Here was the Last Dragonborn, savior, protector, champion. Incredibly grumpy. From what he gathered, a probable alcoholic. She possessed the greatest power in the world--for was there anything more divine than the the dragonblood in her veins, than the Thu’um in her throat? And yet she had never once moved to oppress or discriminate or subjugate. She was...truly Dragonborn. Her ideals and her actions were what it truly meant to be Dragonborn, her courage and faith were the pillars of all _dov_. Her wit was undeniable, rival to that of the greatest masters of the Voice. And yet, she had done it _alone_. There was no Dragon Cult at her back, no position of power or prestige to rely on, and most importantly, no greed to act upon. She was simply _Dovahkiin_ , and nothing more. His brow creased, and the Dragon Priest turned away from the fire.

 

_Perhaps_ , Miraak thought to himself, _perhaps she is the true Dragonborn_.

 

He shook that thought from his head almost as quickly as it had appeared, gaze climbing up to the woman who controlled his thoughts more often than he’d care to admit. She was asleep already, tankard tucked into her palm, head dropping off to the side. He watched her for a second, waiting to see if she would snap back into consciousness like before. She didn’t.

 

Miraak stood carefully, stepping over her outstretched legs crossed at the ankles and towards the fire. He tossed a flame into the little inferno, watching it flare and then claw its way back to life. He turned so his back was to it, warmth flooding his legs and unlocking the cold gripping his knees and back. A soft groan rumbled from his chest. He hadn’t needed to think about things like this--eating, sleeping, getting warm--in Apocrypha. That had been one of the few upsides to staying in Oblivion; it was the same temperature always, and he never felt hungry or particularly tired. He slept, but...he didn’t, at the same time. He never slept deep enough to completely slip away, or to dream.

 

He strode back to Tharya, considering for a moment what his options were. He could leave her here, to sleep peacefully. Although, it was hard to imagine a wooden chair would be kind to her neck in the morning.  
“ _Ahtlahzey_ ,” he murmured after a second. No movement, no reply. The Dragon Priest glanced around the room for a moment, and upon seeing it was abandoned, crouched at the Last Dragonborn’s side. For the first time since he’d known her, she looked oddly calm. Her brow was always knit in anger or confusion, her lips tight with annoyance or parted to Shout. Now the crisscrossing lines of her warpaint were nothing but warpaint, the scar beneath her eye merely a scar. Not conduits of her intimidating demeanor. Golden brown hair was damp from melted snow. Before he knew exactly what he was doing, his forefinger crooked and gently brushed her cheek. Her warpaint was cold and stiff, but her skin was warming rapidly. Intently watching her eyes for any kind of return to wakefulness, his fingertips traced the ridge of her ear and came down her jaw. " _Ahtlahzey,_ go to bed.” In one dangerously confident move his palm spread to cup her cheek.

 

Tharya shifted and muttered something, something he couldn’t make out even if he had to. Her eyes remained shut. He grabbed her shoulder and shook it lightly.  
“ _Ahtlahzey_ ,” he repeated, and then: “Tharya.” This time she made no reply of any kind. Miraak bit back a sigh, again considering his options. He shook her again in a last ditch effort, but still she remained asleep. Finally, the First Dragonborn pried the tankard from her grip, placing it on the table. After a long moment of uncertainty, he wound one arm beneath her knees and brought her legs up, his free limb securing itself around her torso. With a muffled grunt he stood with her in his arms, inwardly cursing when her head bounced off his collarbone and slumped onto his chest. The movement seemed to float her back into some level of sentience, because she shifted around in grip and murmured something against his robe. Briefly he heard his name.   
“Here, _ahtlahzey_.” He replied, making his way out of the hall and into the rotunda. His footsteps seemed to be the only sound in the entire fort, and when he began to climb the stairs the slap of his boots echoed.   
“You big bastard,” she hummed incoherently. Miraak found the littlest of grins tugging at his lips. There was no reply in his exhausted mind for that, so he simply let her words settle into their shared silence and continued, shrouded in darkness, up the stairs.

 

When her hand came to his chest, he was only the least bit surprised. His feet stopped and he glanced down to her.  
“I need to go to Whiterun,” Tharya mumbled tiredly, her voice low.   
“Whiterun?” He echoed. She clambered out of his arms and patted his chest before fishing her collapsed spear out from beneath her robe. With a squeeze, it shot out to its full length. The _clack_ echoed obnoxiously through the corridor.   
“Whiterun.” She confirmed, rubbing her bleary eyes. “There’s no way the Dawnguard stands a chance alone against a whole castle of vampires.” Miraak thought for a moment--he hadn’t truly taken in the Dawnguard’s small numbers until now.   
“Reinforcements?”   
“Of a sort.” With a grin she disappeared down the stairs again, leaving him standing like a shadowed pillar in the hallway. Minutes later, the fort shook, dirt sifting from the ceiling, as her Shout echoed throughout Dayspring Canyon.

 

“Where’s she going?”

The voice was Celann’s, and though he looked exhausted, he sounded alarmed. The Dragonborn, his friend, leaving? She was their greatest asset, their most important warrior. Miraak listened for a moment. He would’ve swore he heard the beat of powerful wings against the howling winds of winter, but said nothing of it. Instead, his gaze shifted back to Celann.  
“Reinforcements.” He repeated.


	11. The Reading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dexion reads the Elder Scroll; the prophecy complicates things; Miraak and Tharya have a chat. dovahzul translations at the end!

“Would you consider waiting for Tharya to return?” Celann pleaded as Isran entered the loose circle surrounding the Moth Priest. “She did find us this Moth Priest, after all.”  
“I will not wait around for the Dragonborn to return. She abandoned us, Celann, plain and simple.” Isran grit out. “Besides,” his eyes fell to Miraak, eyeing the dragon-headed staff standing vertical in his grip, “we have another Dragonborn in our company.”

The Dragon Priest’s golden eyes narrowed for a moment.  
“ _Ahtlahzey_ did not abandon you.” He said, ignoring the questioning looks he got from multiple other faces.

“Everyone, please, quiet.” Dexion’s voice rose above the rest, his Imperial accent laced with minor annoyance. “I must concentrate.” His hands were wrapped around the Elder Scroll, its ivory shell dulled in the weak lighting of the fortress. Richly colored amethysts adorned the outer shell, one centered in a golden metallic star, two more decorating the outer edges. Handles painted deep red with gold lacing winked when turned.  
“ _Rak Sonaak_ ,” Miraak spoke up, “you do not need Canticle bark to read _aan Kel?_ ” Dexion looked surprised for a moment.  
“Canticle bark, an Ancestor Glade—they would...soften the experience,” he replied after a moment, “usually Moth Priests take months to prepare for the reading of an Elder Scroll. The voice of the Ancestor Moth guides us to a Glade and a Canticle Tree, and we would use the bark to strengthen the voice of the Ancestor Moth within us.” A few feet away, Isran scoffed. “But you do not have months to spare.” Dexion looked uneasy as he said this, knuckles white on the Scroll.  
“You will go blind, _Rak Sonaak_ ,” Miraak replied lowly, his brow creasing. The old man gave a nervous laugh.  
“One man’s eyes are a small price in exchange for the countless lives in danger.”

Slowly, the Dragon Priest nodded. Such feelings of honor, dedication, sacrifice—they had not existed under the Cult. But the world had changed, he supposed, and the morale of humanity with it.

He had never seen an Elder Scroll before, but he had heard of them, seen rough drawings. They were...magnificent. They emanated wisdom, power, secrets forgotten of times more ancient than his own. They made even his _dov_ cower away, fearful of the Scroll’s unique power over all _dovah_. But the scholar in him was fascinated, the learner, the _kro_ yearned to grasp its knowledge. To understand. To...know.

 

Dexion slowly tugged the Scroll itself from the casing. It looked to be paper, but something told him it wasn’t. Something older, something lost to the ages. Something that existed only in an Elder Scroll. The Priest’s eyes were closed at first, but as he opened them they were trained on Miraak. The First Dragonborn gave a curt nod.  
“I see...I see a vision before me,” Dexion said suddenly, gaze having swiveled to the Scroll outstretched in front of him. “An image of a great bow.” _A bow?_ “I know this weapon!” His cry echoed throughout the fort, making Celann’s shoulders jump. “This.... _this_ is Auriel’s Bow!” Dexion’s head snapped away from the Scroll, but his gaze remained trained on it. The torchlight reflected in the whites of his eyes. “And now a voice, a voice that speaks from across the ages.” He whispered, voice shaking. He craned his head, as if to lean in and listen. “ _From among the night’s children_ ,” he echoed, “ _a dread lord shall rise!_ ” Dexion’s whole body was trembling now, like a leaf caught in a storm. “ _In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men...”_ his voice rose steadily, holding solidity and authority that it hadn’t before, as he went on: “ _Darkness will mingle with light, and the night and day will be as one!”_ The Moth Priest’s head jerked back to the Scroll, eyes wide as moons. The bone of his knuckles looked as if it threatened to break his skin. “The voice fades.” He whispered suddenly, so quiet it was nearly impossible to hear. “The words...distort. But there is more.”

Miraak forced his arm to relax, realizing the tension occupying his shoulders and neck was more likely from his taut muscles than the ghastly echo of Dexion’s words throughout the fort.  
“The secret of the bow’s power is written elsewhere.” His brow knit together in confusion. “There is more of this prophecy, recorded in different Scrolls. Yes, yes, they are shown here to me.” Words became rushed, breathy. “One contains the ancient secrets of dragons, but the other speaks of something more ancient, more powerful...”

Isran took a loud step forward in the silent pause.  
“What is it, old man?” He asked gruffly, impatient to get his answers.

Dexion took a staggering step backwards, Elder Scroll still in hand.  
“Blood.”

 

Miraak watched him sway, hands suddenly going loose around the Elder Scroll. The Dragon Priest lunged forward to catch it before it fell, the strange parchment soft and waxy against his fingers. A _slap_ sounded as Dexion fell to the floor, hands connecting with the stones first. Isran lumbered to his side.  
“To know the complete prophecy,” Dexion wheezed, “we must have the other two scrolls.”

The First Dragonborn’s eyes turned to the one in his grasp, the glittering gems, the smooth ivory casing. The handles were covered in some kind of closely stitched cloth, velvet perhaps, and he began to hear the very same whispers that the Moth Priest had spoken of. Whispers of a world before Men, before dragons, before even Time itself. Whispers of things that had been, even before him, things that hadn’t passed yet and wouldn’t in his lifetime, things lingering outside Time and waiting for the right circumstances to pull them in...  
“You must not read it!”

The shout made Miraak jolt, concentration torn away from the Scroll. Dexion’s face, pallid grey and many years older than before, was etched with worry. “Blindness is the price paid by those who train their whole lives to read a Scroll,” he warned, “insanity is the price of those who do not.” The Dragon Priest found his hands numb as he clumsily re-sealed the Scroll. An immense weight disappeared from his shoulders.

“Take it,” he grunted to Serana, more or less shoving it into her arms as he passed. Tharya would want to know what had happened. “ _Zu’u fent hadriid_.”

 

Winter in Whiterun was just as cold as the rest of Skyrim, but the Tundra House, the house she’d inherited from her uncle so long ago, was blanketed in warmth. The fireplace was burning, stew her brothers brought over cooking, and though cobwebs hung in the corners and dust clung to book covers, she was glad to be home. It had been months since she last came here. Before she’d joined the Dawnguard, before she’d been marked by Mora, before she’d even gone to Solstheim to put down that asshole calling her a pretender. Each bookshelf was as overflowing as she remembered, spines pressed tightly together and books stacked horizontally on top of neat vertical rows. There was a new fur her brother had brought on the bed, and a wardrobe she hadn’t looked through in ages. For now, though, she only shrugged off her greyish-purple robe, draping it over the back of a chair situated in front of the small window opposite her bed. Her armor was warm, comfortable. 

Venturing out into what her uncle had called “the main hall”--though it was just the biggest room in the house--was a fireplace, dining table, store counter whose shelves now held silverware, plates and bowls, cups, tankards, dried food. Another desk was crammed into the right corner by the door, with blank parchment scattered around its surface, charcoal sitting in the same spot it had been in the beginning of winter. Shelf towers rose another foot from the desk, stuffed with spell tomes, soul gems, rolls of paper, inkwells, quills. Opposite that, in the left corner, were two richly made Imperial chairs, sewed with red velvet and gold decorations, made of the finest cherry wood, vacant beside another stocked bookshelf and an end table home to tankards and more parchment. A set of doors directly across from her bedroom led into a smaller room that held tall bookcases of alchemy ingredients and a lab, an arcane enchanter, old staffs, a chest brimming with magical odds and ends. Beside that chest was a wooden hatch door that led into the cellar.

  
“Your cow died,” Lofrek said, approaching the fireplace with her. They sat together, and her twin brother handed her a cup of ale. “Months ago, poor old girl, she got sick after labor. Calf survived.”

Tharya looked at him and took a long sip of her drink.  
“Honningbrew.” She groaned appreciatively. “It’s been too long since I’ve had Honningbrew.”  
“Mhm. Heard Maven Black-Briar tried to take the place over not long ago.”  
“She’s a skeever in fancy clothes,” the Last Dragonborn muttered, watching her brother’s eyes twinkle with amusement, “and I don’t care who hears it. Honningbrew will always be better than the piss she bottles.”  
“Oh, how I have missed your poetic tongue, sister.” Lofrek smiled at her. He couldn’t remember the last time she had been in Whiterun, or the last time she _hadn’t_ been off doing something heroic and bloody. He had missed her face, the six crisscrossing lines of charcoal black, her clear grey eyes. The golden brown of her hair. Her armor definitely wasn’t the same set he’d last seen her in. She looked exhausted, eyes half-open and shoulders drooping. “So, tell me about this other Dragonborn you pulled out of that Dunmer shithole.”  
“Solstheim is recovering,” she said pointedly, “and the Dark Elves are good people.” His hands came up in gentle surrender.  
“I meant no offense. With the Red Mountain eruption...the stories aren’t encouraging.” Lofrek swirled his ale. “But the other Dragonborn. Go on.”

“Short version? He was a Dragon Priest,” she nodded, taking another sip, “served the dragons many centuries ago. And then he rebelled; killed a lot of them. Just when he was beat a Daedric Prince rescued him--although it wasn’t so much a rescue as a...four thousand year imprisonment.”

Lofrek shook his head.  
“You know this is the stuff of legend, right? The Dragon Cult a myth?”  
“Four thousand years?” A new voice queried. Jorstus was the oldest sibling, tall, strong, handsome, soft-spoken and mild-mannered. He pulled a third wooden chair from the corner and sat with Tharya and Lofrek at the fire. “And he still lives?”  
“Time moves differently in Oblivion, I guess.” Tharya shrugged. “He thinks time may not move at all.” 

 

She remembered that conversation, one frigid night when the clouds blotted out the stars and the fire was unwilling to burn. They sat close but silent, under the same fur trying to stay warm. She hadn’t asked Miraak anything but could tell by the way his golden eyes never left the stars...he missed them. He was always looking to the sky, always walking into a breeze or discreetly brushing his fingertips against the flowers and grass. She’d let him stop at rivers after they crossed to throw cool water against his face. Sometimes, he told her, his scars burned. And that night he told her about Apocrypha for the first time, detailed the moments before his imprisonment and the first few years when Mora bought his trust. He told her of her arrival on Solstheim and then in Oblivion, the first time they met. He explained their battle with the Prince as if she hadn’t been there, but she didn’t mind. His rumbly baritone was laced with an odd warmth that drew her in, eloquent but authoritative. And then he described blessing her spear, how he hadn’t thought it would work at the time, and carrying her out through the Black Book. 

_“Where was I during all this? I only remember parts of that fight.” She offered him the last gulp of ale but he gave a minute shake of his head._ _  
_ _“You were unconscious, ahtlahzey.” He rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose for a second, as if feeling to see if the scar remained. “After I threw your spear at Hermaeus Mora, he vanished. I knew the Black Book would not be open for us to use much longer.” He turned his head to her, huddled in a thick fur, watching him intently. “So I took your spear and carried you out of Apocrypha.”_

_“Carried us.” She said after a moment of thought. “You carried us both.” She swore a hint of a smile tugged at Miraak’s lips, but he turned back to the stars before she could confirm._ _  
_ _“Geh. I carried us out of Apocrypha.”_

 

_What is it that you’re remembering, ahtlahzey?_

She jolted. Suddenly she was no longer sitting at the fire with just her brothers--there was a third figure, tall and broad, dark-skinned and golden-eyed.  
“Miraak?” She quirked an eyebrow. “How...aren’t you in Riften?”

She didn’t even realize she blinked but promptly her surroundings changed, from that of a cozy house to a dreary stone room. A bed pushed against the wall, a dying fire, a rickety dresser, a singular table and chair to accompany it. Fort Dawnguard.  
“I am.” He replied, vaguely gesturing to the room around them. “I would not expect you to recognize this magic. It is from long before your time.”  
“How are we talking right now?” Tharya demanded, looking down at herself. She was…ethereal. When she lifted her palms, the dim sconce light was visible through them. Miraak, however, was solid, blocking out the fireplace.  
“That is unimportant. You should know the _Rak Sonaak_ has read the Elder Scroll.” Miraak pulled the lone chair over to sit. “He believes the weapon we are looking for is Auriel’s Bow, but it can only be obtained through two other Scrolls.”

Tharya groaned. Of course, there was more. There always was.  
“Can’t something be easy for once?” The Dragon Priest was silent. “Fine. Which two?”  
“One concerning the dovah and the other, blood.”  
“Dragons and blood.” She echoed, nodding slowly. “Sounds like most prophecies I know.” With a sigh, the Last Dragonborn sat on the edge of the bed. They had a clear mission, a fairly simply objective: kill the vampires before the vampires killed everyone. But with the reading of this prophecy, the emergence of two more Elder Scrolls...where could they even find them? They had gotten lucky, this time, with Serana. But a second and third Elder Scroll...dragons and blood…

“I have the Dragon Scroll.” She sat up. “I have the Dragon Scroll! I needed it in order to defeat Alduin. It was freezing away in some Dwemer ruin—Alftand.”

“You possess _aan Kel?_ ” Miraak asked, for once his voice giving away his bewilderment. “How did it aid you against the World-Eater?”  
“The Time Wound. I’ll explain it later. But I have the Dragon Scroll, or at least, I know where it is.”

Tharya stood, crossing her arms. “I left it with the Greybeards after I used it against Alduin. Arngeir and Paarthurnax locked it away.”

_Paarthurnax._ He froze at the name, but was determined to not let Tharya see his hesitance. Even if the ancient dragon was aware of his presence back on Nirn, he had done nothing about it. And Miraak had no intention to meet him, either, nor these _Greybeards_ Tharya spoke of.  
“Can you obtain it, _ahtlahzey?_ ” He asked after a moment.  
“I can. I can get it myself or send Odahviing. Either way, tell Dexion we’ll have the Dragon Scroll. All we need is Blood.”  
“ _Pruzah._ Bring it when you are done collecting your reinforcements, _ahtlahzey_.”  
She smiled at him.  
“I-”

 

“Tharya?”

The Last Dragonborn blinked, sitting up from her slouched position. All eyes were on her, but she had no idea who had called her name. Jorstus, the ever vigilant older brother, raised a golden eyebrow.  
“Are you feeling alright?” He asked.  
“I am,” she replied quickly, “just...tired, I guess. What were you saying?” Blue mountain flower eyes remained trained on her, inquisitive and wondering, but Jorstus didn’t say anything.  
“Tell us about these friends of yours, the...Dawnguard, is it?” Lofrek reclined against his chair, legs outstretched and hands cradling a tankard of ale. “Vampire hunters, or something?”

Tharya grimaced.  
“Well, first of all, they aren’t my friends.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kro - mage  
> Zu’u fent hadriid - I need to meditate  
> Geh - yes


	12. The Recruitment Quota

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya goes recruiting for the dawnguard; serana reveals more about the blood scroll; miraak invents fast travel.
> 
> also, just a little note because a ton of people have been asking lately: ahtlahzey, what miraak calls tharya, is dovahzul for "archmage". he called her ahtlahzey at first as a title, bc he refused to call her dragonborn and didn't know her name, but as you might have been able to tell it's shifted into more of a term of endearment for her. :)

“Miraak. Do you have a moment?”

He was barely out of the doorway when Serana stepped in front of him. The Dragon Priest bit back a groan. Tharya wasn’t here to mediate anymore, and he doubted she would be for some time. That only meant he had to deal with the _vukul_ alone, even when her mere presence frayed his nerves.  
“ _Geh_.” He nodded, closing the door behind him. Serana fell into step beside him as he made his way to the stairs.  
“That Moth Priest, Dexion—he said that we needed two other Scrolls to know the whole prophecy. I have an idea about where to start looking.”  
“ _Ahtlahzey_ already has one,” Miraak cut in, descending the staircase slowly, “the _Dov Kel_ , Dragon Scroll. She used it to defeat Alduin.” Serana’s glowing eyes went wide for a moment, and then she nodded in understanding.  
“Which leaves us only needing the Blood Scroll.” The vampire crossed her arms over her chest.  
“ _Sos Kel_. Yes. You know where to find it?”  
“I don’t know exactly-” he grunted, “-but I have an idea. We’ll need to find my mother, Valerica. I have no doubt she’ll know where it is, and with luck, she might even have it herself.”

Miraak paused on the last step.

“What makes you so sure, _vukul?_ ” He questioned, looking up to Serana with a doubtful gaze. All he had heard so far were more guesses, more blind shots in the dark that they couldn’t afford. She was tense for a moment before sighing, offering a little shrug in reply.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, “but my mother knows more about this prophecy than I do, and she might’ve taken some precautions to make sure my father never got everything he needed to carry it out. If my mother doesn’t have the Blood Scroll, she hid it somewhere only she would find it.”

The First Dragonborn grazed his thumb over his chin, deep in thought.  
“I remember you claiming you don’t know where your mother is, _vukul_.”  
“I don’t. But the last time I saw her, she said she’d be going somewhere safe, where my father would never search. I can’t imagine a single place my father _wouldn’t_ look.” Serana placed a hand on her hip. “Except for one. My mother was always cryptic, so hiding in plain sight might have been what she meant.”

Slowly, Miraak raised an eyebrow.  
“Where are you proposing we go that your father wouldn’t, _vukul?_ ” He asked slowly. Serana chewed her lip for a moment, before meeting his gaze.  
“Castle Volkihar.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Companions!” Tharya raised her tankard towards the fire pit burning between the tables of Jorrvaskr. The chatter and laughter quieted. “My friends. As much as I’d love to drink with you from dawn to dusk and hear all your stories of valor and glory, I come with a favor to ask.” The Last Dragonborn stood from her chair, meeting each pair of eyes settled on her. Some new faces, but most she recognized. Athis, Njada, Ria. She placed a hand on Farkas’s shoulder beside her. “Far, far northwest, across mountains and lakes, over the Port of Solitude and standing on the beach of the Sea of Ghosts.” She set her tankard down. “That is where our next enemy hides.”

Tharya moved away from the table, slowly pacing the red and gold runner rug that sat at the bottom of the stairs leading out.  
“A clan of vampires has recently made itself known across the province, attacking and killing innocent civilians. A group with the goal of combating these monsters has formed in Riften—the Dawnguard.”

Vilkas’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back in his chair.

“The Dawnguard?” He echoed. She nodded. “They were the earliest vampire hunters. I had no idea they reformed.”

“Only recently,” Tharya confirmed, “and they cannot fight these vampires alone—their numbers, though growing, are at the lowest they will be before it’s too late.”  
“Too late?” Farkas echoed. “Too late for what?”  
“To quench the fire before it threatens to consume us all,” she clenched her fist, knowing the metaphor went straight over Farkas’s head but the rest of them understood, “to cut the head off the beast before it gets too big.”

“And you’re asking for our help, Shield-Sister?” It was Aela’s voice speaking up now, a couple chairs down from Vilkas.  
“I am. I can’t do this without my family,” Tharya made a gesture to all of them. Pomp and circumstance aside, the Companions were fierce, numerous, and smart. Their numbers would be a huge bolster to the Dawnguard’s skimpy forces. “And you are the fiercest family I have ever known.” Murmurs of approval, appreciation. The Last Dragonborn looked at each face in turn, before taking her tankard from the table. “Discuss amongst yourselves, my friends. I’ll return to you shortly.” And so she turned and stalked out of Jorrvaskr, heaving a long, low sigh as the doors closed behind her. She was never one for giving speeches, and she knew the Companions would follow the cause if they believed enough in it, but a few more traditional members might take some flowery convincing.

 

“Dragonborn?”

Her eyes flicked open and she lifted herself from the door, gaze settling on the man before her. Jon Battle-Born meandered forward, a thick fur cloak sitting on his shoulders.  
“I heard what you said in there—honeyed words, indeed, Dragonborn.”  
“The Companions have always been ones for glorious speeches,” Tharya gave a little shrug, “can’t say I’m the best at giving them.” She took a long sip from the tankard, pulling the hazy grey-violet mage robe tighter around her.  
“Nonsense, Dragonborn,” Jon chuckled, “you’re a natural.” His gaze turned on the grey winter sky for a moment, before he sighed. “I’d like to help, Dragonborn.” Tharya raised an eyebrow. “If what you said in there was true, then the vampires are a bigger threat to all of us than Ulfric or the Elves right now. I’d be honored to vanquish them at your side.”  
“This is no cakewalk, Jon,” she told him carefully, “these vampires aren’t your average run-of-the-mill bloodsuckers. They’re noble, centuries old, powerful. If you come-”  
“You can’t guarantee my coming back?” The blonde Battle-Born nodded, that lazy, faraway smile gracing his features. “Aye, Dragonborn. And yet I still ask to fight.”

After a moment of thought, Tharya nodded.  
“Welcome to the Dawnguard, Jon Battle-Born.”

 

* * *

 

 

“How do you propose we enter, _vukul?_ ” Miraak queried. “It’s not as if we can knock on the front gates.”

Serana eyed him cautiously.  
“You’ve been spending time around Tharya,” she noted. He glared. “But we can get in through the courtyard without raising the alarm; there’s an unused inlet on the northern side of the island. Previous owners used it to bring supplies into the castle. There’s an old escape tunnel.”  
“And you,” Isran turned to Miraak, looking somewhat disappointed another Dragonborn didn’t share his intensely narrow-minded views, “you approve of this?”  
“What I do and do not approve of is of no importance to us,” Miraak grit back. “ _Ahtlahzey_ already possesses the Dragon Scroll. We must work to accomplish what she already has. Time is of the essence, now.”

“Castle Volkihar is in the farthest northwestern reach of Skyrim,” Serana informed them, crossing her arms over her chest. “If time is of the essence, we should’ve left yesterday.” Isran growled something.  
“I have a spell that may aid us in that,” the Dragon Priest put in, eyes trained on the dusty stone floor. “If I can bring us to _faal gevlid_ , are you certain we will not draw attention?” Serana nodded.  
“What do you need for this spell? What does it do?” Isran drew closer.  
“I will need your blood and your memory,” the response was aimed at Serana, who shifted away with a quizzically concerned look on her face, “it will bring us directly to the inlet you described.”  
“How?”

Miraak felt the littlest of grins tug at his lips.  
“ _Lah._ ”

 

Dexion had seated himself against the wall and watched Miraak work. He had told Miraak his sight was fading around the edges but he was determined to see the Dawnguard’s mission completed. There were still two more Elder Scrolls to read. Miraak said little but found the old man’s passion commendable. He was much more devoted to the cause than Tharya seemed. Perhaps it was because of the Elder Scrolls; perhaps it was because of the prophecy, the Bow. Perhaps it was because he was in the presence of a Dragon Priest who was millennia old.

“Your accent is thick; where are you from, Dragonborn?”

Miraak paused. He wasn’t used to being called _Dragonborn,_ not anymore. Immediately out of Apocrypha he had answered to it, felt his blood stir whenever Tharya claimed the title, but now...  
“I am Atmoran,” he replied finally, “from a land far north.”  
“Atmora,” Dexion echoed, nodding slowly, “I’ve heard it’s a frozen wasteland.”

 _Frozen wasteland._ At the end of his time on Nirn the winters in Atmora were becoming more frigid, more bitter, summers milder. But nevertheless it had been lush, once. Sprawling plateaus, snow-capped mountains, lakes that shimmered under the sun. He remembered it just as vividly as he had four thousand years ago. He remembered the tall grass brushing his hands, clinging to his robes, the flowers blushing under the sun, waves crashing onto shore only to crawl up the sand and slide over his toes. In Atmora he could take fruit off the trees, lie in fields of plush white yarrow flowers. _Yarrows._ They were small, short, but vibrantly beautiful. Their scent reminded him of...of his mother. Centuries upon centuries ago, back into the farthest reaches of his mind, little scraps of her remained. And each memory was framed by winking white flowers, shuffling in a breeze.

“-Dragonborn?”

He nearly jolted, almost dropped the open scroll in his hands. Dexion leaned forward expectantly, awaiting an answer to the question Miraak hadn’t heard. “I asked how you know this spell, Dragonborn.” The old man offered again.  
“I created it.” He grunted. Dexion seemed sated for a moment, sitting back against the wall. Then he spoke again:  
“What does it _do?_ ”

Serana entered the room with a steel dagger in hand, Elder Scroll missing from her back.  
“It allows us to travel between locations,” he raised his hand to snap his fingers, “instantaneously.” The vampire raised an incredulous eyebrow. “That is why I need you and your memories of _faal gevlid_. It works only if you possess something, or someone, who has been to the destination.”  
“So I’m like...a conduit. You can use my memories and my presence as a roadmap to the castle.” He knelt to spread the scroll on the floor, using the two dying candles to keep it open. On it he’d carefully drawn a swirling glyph in dark charcoal, cut by two lines in a large X. “ _Kriist het._ ” He grabbed his staff off the floor, standing on the opposite side of the scroll from Serana. Miraak placed the tip of his staff in the very center of the parchment, wrapping both hands around it. He nodded to Serana to do the same, and she curled her hands around the staff above and below his.

The Dragon Priest closed his eyes.  
“ _Nor strahhe, kuz zey hofkiin. Wah faal staad zu'u engein."_  He said firmly. After a moment of silence, he heard Dexion stand, the bench creaking. Serana shifted. He felt the magic in the air growing, coursing through his veins, bursting from his fingertips, searing like wildfire into his staff. It became almost impossible to breathe, so he didn’t, arms shaking for a moment before the world seemed to...snap.

 

Slowly, he opened his eyes. They were standing on frozen ground, snow falling gently around them. Serana shivered lightly. The first thing he saw was a rickety wooden boat, a single oar inside, sitting amid the tiny whispering waves lapping onto the rocky shore. His gaze moved up, cutting through the dense fog, to the bristling shadow of a looming castle across the water.  
“This is the place, _vukul?_ ” He asked quietly, snowflakes landing against his dark robes. Serana took a lingering step forward, eyes widening as low clouds shifted to allow the highest battlements to peek through.  
“Yeah,” she whispered, “this is the place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahtlahzey - archmage, miraak's name for tharya  
> geh - yes  
> vukul - vampire  
> faal gevlid - the castle  
> lah - magic  
> kriist het - stand here  
> Nor strahhe, kuz zey hofkiin. Wah faal staad zu'u engein - country roads, take me home, to the place i belong (wow i'm sorry but i had to do it for the meme)


	13. Ahtlahzey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya makes progress with the companions; miraak and serana get to castle volkihar where miraak has a mind-boggling experience with the afterlife, and those in it. dovahzul translations at the end!

“Some few of you should remain here,” Tharya repeated, for the third time. Her voice was lost in a sea of bickering shouts, a few animalistic grunts. The Companions hadn’t been the least bit happy when she said it the first time, or the second. This time they simply couldn’t hear it. They made Tharya Harbinger once, and she’d passed the title to Vilkas. As honoring as it was, Tharya hardly stayed in Whiterun long enough at any given time to be Harbinger. The last few months were a prime example.

 

 

She and Jon Battle-Born looked at each other with mild concern overshadowed by exasperation. She didn’t bother counting the minutes, knowing the Companions could easily argue through the night and past dawn. They were fated to be divided on any given topic, and all of them were too stubborn or too stupid to know when they were wrong. Tharya lifted her tankard to her lips, frowning when she found it empty. No ale, and a bunch of half-drunk rowdy Nords with swords...

Jon shook his head as she stood, muttering a small wish of luck if she hoped to accomplish the task of taming the Companions. Not one of them settled when she rose from her chair, and after a moment of deliberation, Tharya reached beneath her robe, extracted her spear, and squeezed it.

_Shiiink CLACK!_

 

The sound silenced Jorrvaskr, and each quarreling warrior’s eyes turned to where the Dragonborn had stuck her spear through the thick wooden table.  
“All of you, listen to me.” The Last Dragonborn said slowly. “I realize you all want to fight. I realize you all want a chance at glory.” She grabbed the center of her spear in a tight grip, and it snapped back into its previous position, leaving a staff-sized hole in the wooden plank. “But if we all go there and _die_ , our entire mission will be useless, and the Companions will be wiped out.” Mouths fell open to protest. “I’m only asking that a few of you stay behind. If we don’t return, someone needs to know what happened. Someone needs to rally the rest of Skyrim, and we need tactical minds at the forefront.” They all seemed to stare blankly at her. “ _Your_ minds.”

 

A collective look of clarity.

“I will stay,” Vilkas was the first to speak, sighing in defeat. “As Harbinger my duty is to the Companions first.” He nodded respectfully to Tharya. “And that duty requires that I ensure our legacy, our presence on Tamriel does not vanish.”   
The Last Dragonborn tried to conceal her surprise; Vilkas’s words were refreshing, but she had never thought the Harbinger of all people would offer to stay behind. She had half expected him to set an example by going to fight, encouraging his fellow warriors to follow. But Vilkas was smarter than that, she knew, and this only went to reinforce her decision to name him Harbinger.  
“Which of you will honor your Harbinger?” She added before another mouth could open. Slowly but surely, Athis and a Breton woman she guessed was new stood. Then Torvar.  
“I ain’t too keen on freezing to death, Dragonborn,” he said uncertainly. She knew it wasn’t just the cold he was scared of. 

No one else stepped forward after that, but Tharya didn’t try to push her luck. She only crossed her arms over her chest, looking to Jon Battle-Born one last time.  
“Fort Dawnguard is in the southeast corner of Skyrim, in the Rift. I suggest you leave as soon as possible,” she looked across the remainder of the Companion’s forces. Aela, Farkas, Njada, Ria, and a handful of new recruits that had joined in her absence. Not a lot, but they would be a substantial bolster to the Dawnguard. “Leave by sundown, only use the main roads. Don’t stop until you reach Dayspring Canyon. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going or what you’re doing.” Staunch nods from each remaining member. “Pack light.” The Last Dragonborn glanced outside, to where the first snowflakes of the day began to flit down. Hopefully not another storm; she still had her fair share of traveling to do. “And Talos guide you all.”

 

***

“You aren’t cold in that?” Serana asked him again.  
“I told you, vukul, I am Atmoran. The winters in my homeland were much worse than this, even before the climate deteriorated.” He grunted back. The inlet she’d brought them to was a rectangular stone dock carved into the rocky base of the hill Castle Volkihar sat upon. It was in the shape of a U, opening into the Sea of Ghosts. A decrepit, overturned longboat sat in the center. He couldn’t imagine who the previous owners had been, but they definitely weren’t ferrying supplies in anymore.  
“Through here,” Serana gestured down the dock to where something resembling a pergola of stone stuck out of the rock face. “There’s a door leading into the castle there.”

They crept along in the darkness, and for a moment Miraak nearly checked over his shoulder for Tharya. She was always leading, her silhouette never mistakable, the glow of her spear a constant reminder of her presence. Though he hated to admit it, he’d grown accustomed to following her. To watching her movements, to surveying their surroundings. Not only for his safety, but for hers. It felt like something was missing with her not around, like something was about to go wrong. But now it was just him and Serana, and the only glow he had to focus on was the wispy red spell in the vampire’s hand.

“Vukul!” The shout left his lips just as the skeleton raised its blade above his head. Serana spun around, intending to look towards him but her vision was consumed by the image of a human ribcage before her. With a shout the vampire dodged to her right, eyes widening.  
“Behind you!” She shouted back. Miraak felt his hand immediately go to his sword, and just as he attempted to whip around and face whatever monstrosity awaited him, a pair of cold, bony hands wrapped around his arms and dragged him backwards.  
“Hi fen dir!” An iron-toed boot from behind brought his leg down, a sickening crack meeting his ears as white pain flared from his knee. The Dragon Priest only grunted, thrashing against the skeleton. He’d dealt with far deadlier beings, and he would not allow himself to be taken down by a restless, ancient pile of bones. 

 

Miraak reached behind him and wrapped his hands around the undead’s ribs, one hand grasping for the spinal column that twisted and grinded under his touch. He was fully aware he was being dragged backwards, and each kick of his leg only set his nerves on fire.  
“Miraak!”

Scrambling for purchase, he finally broke free, staggering forward.  
“ _Nid,_ ” he turned to deliver his half-growled threat, “ _hi_ -”

The pointed hilt of an ancient Nordic sword connected to his temple, and with a thud the Dragon Priest collapsed.

 

_Where have you gone, my boy?_

He knew that voice. Old, weary, but holding promise of strength long past.

_I could see you once. Where have you gone?_

With a grunt the Dragon Priest sat up. Where was he? Everything was black, empty. He was surrounded by nothing.

“ _Dii kul_ ,” the voice went on. _My son._ Who...?  
“Morokei?” A gentle chuckle made him whip around. Suddenly there was no pain in his leg, no throbbing in his skull. But the last thing he had seen...  
“Miraak,” the older man smiled briefly, but then his lips turned into a frown. “You look lost, _dii kul_.”  
“Morokei,” he repeated, masking his wonder as distaste. “Why are you here?”  
“You speak as if you even know where _you_ are,” Morokei sniggered at him, adjusting his grip on his staff. “Do you?” The First Dragonborn held his weathered gaze for a moment before grimacing, taking another look around.  
“I am no longer your son,” he said finally, eyes coming to rest on the other Priest’s slightly hunched form.  
“Ah, yes.” Morokei sighed gently and leaned against his staff. “You are the First Dragonborn. Dragon Priest. First Mage.” He nodded. “You always believed yourself too good for me, _dii kul_.”

Miraak blinked and Morokei vanished, and when he turned around again there he was, lying in a grandiose bed with a forest green blanket tucked around his sides. He was old and frail, skin an ashen grey. Another figure was seated as his side.

_The Last Dragonborn,_ Morokei’s voice echoed in his head, _she has saved you. And yet, despite your habit of finding yourself superior, you trail at her heels wherever she may lead._

Miraak’s jaw tightened.

_Why?_  
“In our time, debts such as that were repaid,” he declared, growing defensive, “ _ahtlahzey_ has given me my life and my freedom.”

_Ahtlahzey. You gifted her that title when you did not know her name, yet you still call her by it._  
Miraak drew closer to the dimly lit corner of darkness where Morokei rested in bed, and abruptly the second figure stood as a third materialized, walking towards the bed. Though he saw no doors, the sound of one swinging closed made him pause.  
“Miraak,” Vahlok’s voice echoed gently through the nothingness, “you’ve come.”  
“Though I should not have wasted my time.” His younger self bit back, golden eyes burnished and frustrated. He remembered this night, this room, this conversation. He remembered it all too well.

_You were not there when I died, dii kul. Vahlok promised you would come, but you never did._

“If you are looking for an apology,” Miraak turned around to face the darkness, disgruntled when he didn’t find Morokei’s familiar old face staring back at him, “you will get none.”

_It is not I you should apologize to, dii kul. But your arrogance and your prejudice hurt your brother more than you could’ve imagined._

 

A split-second, flash image of Vahlok burying his flaming staff into his leg, a roar leaving his lips, the ground parting to sever Solstheim from the mainland.

 

_That is why he wanted to be the one to kill you._

 

He blinked again and this time the bed was gone, Vahlok had vanished, and Morokei was standing in front of him. He was of average height for an Atmoran, but his hair had grown long and grey in his final years. Now it was pulled back, and his golden-red robes had lost their splendor but looked no different than what he’d worn in service to the Cult.  
“Her spear, in the tavern. It rejected you.” He reached for Miraak’s hand and held it up, the mostly healed red mark across his palm throbbing ever so slightly. “That is where her will and its shall never align.” He wrenched his hand away from Morokei and watched as his likeness disappeared almost immediately, leaving him alone in the void.

_I wonder: you call her ahtlahzey, still, and tell yourself it is merely a formality. A title._

“Get out of my head.” Miraak demanded.  
_And yet, have you not come to think, perhaps that is not so?_

“No. It is her title.”

_It means archmage, in our tongue._  
“Get out of my head!”  
_And yet, perhaps it does mean simply archmage anymore. Not for her. Not to you, Miraak._

 

All at once, his name began to echo like a million war drums in the space around him, said a thousand different ways--shouted, spoken, whispered, moaned, grunted, roared--in a thousand different voices. Morokei, Vahlok, Paarthurnax, his mother, his _vahdins_ , Tharya. They all swelled together in volume, deafening him, claiming him, and just when it became too much to bear, he sat up.

“Miraak!” Serana gasped, moving away as he bolted upright. Her hand slipped from his forehead and she put it on his shoulder, healing spell disappearing between her fingers. “Are you alright?”

He sucked in a shaky breath before looking around. He was sitting on cold stone, surrounded by rock, a hill, the dying light of afternoon, and the quiet lapping of water against the inlet. Castle Volkihar.

“ _Geh_ ,” he said finally, searching the area for the Last Dragonborn’s familiar figure. She was nowhere to be seen.   
“I guess that skeleton took you out,” Serana explained, standing, “thought I lost you for a minute there.” He tried to mirror her movement and stand, but only found that moving his leg sent intense ripples of blinding pain up through his sides. His head felt fine, but his knee was on fire.

“I don’t know a lot of restoration,” she said apologetically, “can you walk?”

He took a moment to collect himself before the warm glow of a healing spell enveloped his fingers, and he passed his hand over his thigh and joint. The prominent throbbing disappeared.

 

Serana extended a hand that he warily took, pulling himself up. His sword was in his belt and he took his staff from the vampire’s hand when she offered it to him.  
“We should get moving,” she said, and the Dragon Priest nodded. His heart was pounding against his ribs like a nail beneath a hammer. After giving him one final look, she turned towards the outcropping of stone that hid the doorway and moved towards it.

  
_Ahtlahzey is not here for you, my boy._ Miraak froze mid-step. _Ahtlahzey cannot rescue you._ Briefly he closed his eyes.   
“I don’t need her to,” he breathed, “I don’t need her to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi fen dir - you will die  
> ni, hi - no, you (will die)  
> geh - yes


	14. a/n 2

hellooo everyone! some little updates:

1\. next chapter IS coming. soon. i'm about halfway through it now, and expect to be done hopefully early next week? i KNOW it's been a long while so i apologize! thanks for hanging in there with me! summer is officially here and i'm done with school for now so i should be able to write more.

2\. a change regarding tharya's horse: instead of BUCEPHALUS THE IMPERIAL-BRED though he will be missed, i've changed steeds to [this bad boy](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/59/92/06/5992069b2af83e66ebd98542d1ee0567.jpg) (tried to get smth closer to the whiterun horses bc that's where she's from) named KNIGHT. he was given to tharya as a gift when she was fourteen.

b. at some point she may or may not convince [Quaranir (psijic order guy in the college quests)](https://lagbt.wiwiland.net/images/5/55/SK-Quaranir.jpg) to get her a psijic cloak because she wants to Look Cool. we'll see. :)

 

sorry if anyone got excited about a posting notification...coming soon! with more angst and more crazy tharya/miraak moments!

 

 

 


	15. The Undercroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> serana and miraak journey into castle volkihar in hopes of finding valerica, but their search leads them only to a pile of bones, an obnoxiously large frostbite spider, and a broken moondial.
> 
> (HUGE filler chapter y'all. if i could've skipped it i would've)

When they approached the pergola of stone, they found the little staircase collapsed and destitute wooden planks sticking from between the rocks. There had been a door here, once. He looked at Serana but she looked just as surprised as he was.   
“Come on,” she gestured towards a set of uneven stairs that hugged an untamed face of rock. “There should be another door. This way is less direct, but it’s our only way in now.”

The higher they climbed the more wind snapped at his robes, rolling off the sea and climbing with them. The new door was framed by dim, flickering torches, which were nearly blown out like candles by the air’s angry movement. He followed Serana in silence, holding the door against the wind when she opened it. The vampire took a few cautious steps inwards before gesturing for him to follow.  
“The undercroft,” she whispered, “the only thing we’re likely to find in here is skeevers and dust.”

Miraak held his staff at the ready as the door closed behind him. The undercroft was dark, damp, musty; it reminded him of Apocrypha. Immediately to their left was a set of stairs, which then took a hairpin turn and led downwards still.  
“ _Kun_ ,” he murmured, tapping his staff end to the stone floor. A shimmering light blossomed from the dragon head carved into the wood, illuminating the surrounding space. Cobwebs in every corner, dust and rock and bones littering the floor. A low, cold fog hung around his ankles. They were truly in vampire territory now.

 

Together they tiptoed down the stairs. His eyes went everywhere but the floor; he didn’t want to see what sort of spider or which part of a femur he was stepping on. The stairway turned again, this time leading down to his left, and brought them to a large, wooden door that opened to a much bigger chamber with vaulted ceilings and a shallow stream running directly through the stone.  
“Watch out!” Serana’s voice echoed against each wall, and his attention was diverted to the phantom dog charging at him.   
“What is that, vukul?” He wondered aloud.  
“A death hound! Don’t let them bite you!” His sword came from its scabbard in an instant and the hound lunged for it, stopping only when the blade was engulfed by flame.

_ “It sets things on fire,” she smiled, “and it belonged to one of my ancestors, so be careful.”  _

  
The Dragon Priest grinned.   
_ I’ll thank you for this later, ahtlahzey.  _

 

He swung the sword towards the hound, only succeeding in slicing through its ghastly black appearance to have it rematerialize.

“They can only be killed with magic!” Serana called, grunting as she threw another fireball at a second hound. Miraak clasped his hands around his staff, the calm light shifting into a flaming spear tip. The same spell Vahlok had used with all intention to kill him—the final spell he’d been victim to before the Last Dragonborn. The hound leapt again, and this time was met with a fiery, ethereal blade that punctured its wispy body and then exploded.

He blinked smoke from his eyes as Serana glided back to his side, grimacing.  
“I hate those things,” she proclaimed, stepping gingerly around the gooey remains of the death hound he’d killed. She led him forward, past the bridge that arched over the shallow stream, and farther into the darkness. The light surrounding his staff returned. She paused for a moment when they reached a split—going to the right would only bring them to their previous position on the opposite side of the bridge. But when they rounded the corner left, they were met with the image of a small set of stairs leading upwards, bordered by an alchemy table on one side and a bookshelf laden with vampire robes and numerous ingredients.  
“Someone has been here more recently than you may think, vukul.” Miraak noted, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his blade again.  
“You think I can’t see that?” She sighed, the roll of her eyes near audible.

The room they entered now was more cramped, with a lower ceiling and no light besides his staff. Three tables were pressed to the wall opposite them. One held books and what looked like assorted bones, another a cast-iron pot and strange flowers—what looked like a heart—and the left furthermost table displayed bloody rags heaped upon one another.  
“Here,” Serana said, moving towards a rusty lever beyond the third table. “Let’s see what this does.”  
“You don’t know?”  
The vampire shrugged.  
“Never hurts to find out, right?” She grabbed the lever and forced it forward, the terrible screech of years of rust scraping against metal making him wince. He swore he heard the creaking of wood with it, and when the lever could finally be pushed no more a large wooden bridge made of old planks slammed down not far away.

 

Miraak hadn’t seen the hallway below them until now, when the downed bridge let light filter into the impenetrable darkness of the undercroft.  
“It’s not a far jump.” The Dragon Priest looked up at her. “The entrance to this hallway is all the way down the stairs and back towards the bridge,” the spells enveloping the vampire’s hands dissipated, “and you told me yourself we don’t have time to waste.”  
“When was that?” Serana mounted the stone railing and leapt, landing with a grunt in the abyss below. Miraak shook his head but followed suit, wondering what it was that had turned the vampires of the Fourth Era so lazy.  
“I recognize this,” Serana said as they moved closer to the open archway at the end of the hall, leading to a bridge that split to the left and right, “take a left. This is one of those weird security measures my father put in when he got paranoid.” He followed her instructions and they veered left, going down a better lit, if cramped hallway that smelled of wet moss and...blood.

Thick cobwebs brushed his hair and face as he went, shallow puddles created from centuries of dripping water filtering from the ceiling lapping around his boots. This hallway had a strange feel to it, like it was bringing them to something large and dreadful. It made his heart quicken.

 

The first bones he saw were illuminated by torchlight, in a low-lying pile that was built like a riverbank against the water that collected here. Broken and fractured skulls stuck out, femurs with unidentifiable scratch marks in them were thrown in with bent ribs and fragments of jawbones. But this wasn’t the only such pile; there were three more, and each grew in height and density. The tallest had to be up to his hip, and bones were stacked carelessly upon bones of the same making but not of the same body. He felt his fingertips grow cold. There was a massive magical  _ absence _ here; these hundreds of souls had been forgotten for Divines know how long. They seemed to suck the room dry of all the air. Femurs and fingers floated on the frigid water, some coated with blood, others pale and old. These remains could range from a day to a millennia old.

“They were not buried properly,” Miraak whispered, golden eyes fixed on endless heaps of bones and blood. “Their souls have nowhere to go.”   
“Well, we don’t have time to sort out every body.” Serana moved around him and to his left, towards a set of stairs. “Come on.”   
“You  _ condone  _ this?” He snapped after a moment, staff light flickering out. “The souls of the dead are not something to be trifled with or forgotten. Simply because you feast on them like cattle does not mean they are unworthy of the most basic respect.” Serana looked at him but said nothing, glancing to the piles upon piles of osseous matter. “Even the Cult would have given them proper rites.”

 

Without a word he went towards the stairs, trying his utter best to avoid stepping on any of the loose remains not condemned to a pile. The stairs were stained with dark blood, splattered everywhere, even some on the walls. This castle was making his skin crawl more by the second, and he wanted nothing more than to subject every undead in the keep to a fiery death.

 

He lost count of which number hallway they were in now, but the cobwebs grew thicker and more sticky. They did not float like the brittle ones previous, but rather rooted themselves to his hair and refused to be swiped away. They came to two doorways, both astoundingly  _ covered _ in the substance, so thick it was only pure white with no way of seeing through.   
“I don’t like what we’re about to find,” Serana mumbled as he opened his fingers to accommodate a fireball. It shot into the webbing and burned a good portion of it away, revealing the cobwebs’ many-eyed maker to them.

 

He’d seen a frostbite spider before, but never so...grotesquely large.

The flaming tip returned to his staff as Serana’s hands lit up, a draining spell in one and a firebolt in the other. Divines, why did they have so many eyes? He circled the spider as Serana waved her dagger at it menacingly—part of him thought she didn’t know how to use that kitchen knife. She shot her flames into the spider’s face and it made a terrible screeching sound, rearing up and giving him the opening he needed to hack at the beast’s legs. Another terrifying noise and he managed to clip two off. The spider reared, albeit slowly and sluggishly. Serana’s draining spell was doing its work. He spotted the dagger buried in the animal’s side and slashed at its countless eyes with his staff. A shriek as the flames wedged themselves deep into the spider’s skull, and after a brief moment of death throes the beast collapsed.

“I hate those things,” Serana muttered, yanking her dagger out with a disgusted frown. “Let’s go.” Miraak removed his staff, the fiery blade flickering out of existence as they left the spider on the cold floor. Through the webs and cocoons hanging from the ceiling he spotted another lever and meandered over to pull it. Through the criss-crossing iron bars that served as a window to the intersection of the two bridges they’d come across below, a third wooden bridge was lowered. The Dragon Priest resisted the urge to groan; nothing could be simple, could it?

 

They passed the spider’s corpse quietly and returned through the hall that brought them there, back into the room filled with bones, back through the hallway that stank of dread and restless souls. Back to the bridges, and this time they followed the third one which brought them to a dark staircase that led up to a second flight, took a turn to the right and led into a third.   
“There, that door,” Serana pointed upwards when they were almost to the top of the third flight. “That door should bring us to the courtyard.” The door was short and wooden, not made for tall Atmorans like himself, and came to a point at the top. The vampire pushed it open ahead of him and Miraak ducked his head to follow her outside.

The trees were barren and grey, each one of them circling the courtyard devoid of leaves or growth entirely. Plants seemed to have withered up and died out years ago. Twigs dry as bone cracked under his boots. The only light came from the moon, and even then it was masked by the clouds from which a continuous drizzle of frigid rain fell. In the center of the courtyard sat a large moondial, though it too looked unused and forgotten.

“What happened to this place?” Serana wondered aloud, her voice tinged with disappointment, “everything’s been torn down. It looks...”

“ _ Dilon. _ ” He offered.   
“Dead.” Serana migrated towards one of the little outcroppings that led into the courtyard, climbing its stairs. “This door used to lead into the castle’s great hall. I suppose my father had it sealed.” Down the steps, across the courtyard, past the moondial, she stopped again. A little fenced off area. “This was my mother’s garden.” A forlorn sigh. “Do you have any idea how beautiful something is if it’s been tended to by a master for hundreds of years?” He didn’t answer.

“The moondial,” Miraak said finally, leaving Serana’s side and circling the little crests that bordered the large dial in the middle. “Your mother used it?”   
“She did but—it looks like some of the crests have been...removed,” the vampire moved closer, “and the dial’s off. I didn’t know someone could remove them.”   
“Then we must find them,” the Priest said, “and place them in the correct spots.”

  
With a sigh, Serana gave the dim courtyard another glance.  
“Let’s get to it, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kun - light  
> dilon - dead
> 
> thank you SO much everyone for sticking with me! ahh, i know it's been tough and updates are few and far between...hoping to do some good writing this summer and update more frequently, but i also just received my summer reading list and work and GOD is it terrible. five books plus at least three assignments attached to each of them, PLUS we have to read sections of the Bible to find allusions...ugh. but anyway, thanks for struggling with me through the filler chapter


	16. His Jagged Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya meets up with her brothers in whiterun, who inform her of the growing tension in a forcefully unified stormcloak skyrim; the psijics contact the last dragonborn to figure out who has access to the spells of old; miraak and serana make progress in finding valerica.

“What, you think just because I’m a werewolf I know the lunar cycle by heart?”  
“It wasn’t my idea.”  
“ _Ahtlahzey_ ,” Miraak butt in, stepping in front of Serana. “Even if you do not, you have books at your disposal. I have not been First Mage in millennia; your knowledge can fill in where mine does not reach.”  
“You’re asking for my help?” The Last Dragonborn’s spectral form shifted. She knew she wouldn’t get an answer out of him. “Fine. Let’s take a look.”

 

 

 

They had found each missing crest, and now the simple question came to them: where did each go? Four thousand years ago he would’ve scoffed condescendingly at Serana for asking him, taken each shimmering disk and placed them in their definitive spots. But the Cult had disintegrated not long after his imprisonment began, and for four thousand years the memorization of star charts and seasonal shifts and the meaning of weather patterns had slowly drained from his mind, replaced with a bigger, much more primal thought: survival.

 

So he had summoned the Last Dragonborn.

 

The Dragon Priest had no wish to admit what a comfort her presence was, even if she wasn’t truly here. He had grown so used to her existence that when he was devoid of it he felt lost, alone even. At the very least she acted as a buffer between him and the _vukul_ , who seemed to sense his growing distaste and spoke only to the Last Dragonborn.  
“Put that crest over here. No, on the opposite side. Right there.” Her voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he watched her spectral form circle the moondial to settle beside him. 

“You look tired,” Tharya noted from his side, eyes still fixed on the moondial, “beat.” Miraak couldn’t find the energy within himself to bristle at her words; normally he despised anyone reading his emotions, or assuming they could. But he was not surprised the Last Dragonborn had come to understand his body language. From the little time they’d spent together, he felt as if they knew each other like old friends.  
“I will be glad to be finished with this.” He replied in a hushed voice, arms crossed over his chest.

“That makes two of us.” Her phantom form passed behind him, and a cool hand rested on his back. He fought to remain tense and alert under her touch. “You’ll be glad to know I’ve recruited some more faces to our fight. The Companions should be arriving soon at Fort Dawnguard, and I was with my brothers before you...called.”

“Is Isran aware of this?” He raised one eyebrow. If he had picked up anything from the stubborn Redguard’s outward manner, it was that he didn’t appreciate outside assistance and didn’t appreciate people not telling him things.  
“No, but if he’s smarter than he looks he’ll accept the help.” He didn’t have to look down to know she was rolling her eyes. The Dragon Priest snorted.  
“Let us hope, then.”  
“That he accepts it?”

He shifted to meet her spectral gaze, allowing the tiniest upwards quirk of his lips.  
“ _Nid._ That he is smarter than he looks.”

 

He let the spell go not much later, breaking the seal that had been made on the ground out of dead twigs and leaves, kicking them apart. Tharya immediately vanished, and he was once again left alone with Serana.

 

* * *

 

  
“Sorry about that,” Tharya moved back towards her twin brother, blinking as the mid-morning sun shone into her eyes. “Dragonborn business. What were we talking about?”  
“The bloody Stormcloaks,” Lofrek replied, gesturing for them to keep walking towards the bridge, “the ones you fought for?”  
“Don’t remind me.” Tharya grunted, absently touching her spear. “Something’s changed since I last wore those colors. Their mindset is...skewed.”  
“Big words,” Lofrek teased, “but I wouldn’t know much about them, I only just got back home.”

“You are right in noticing the change,” a new voice said, and they both whipped around to confront its owner, “you are not the only one.”

Jorstus was the oldest of all the children in Tharya’s family, and perhaps the best with a sword. Certainly the most reserved. He was tall and blonde, with striking grey-blue eyes, broad shoulders and a short beard. The perfect image of the perfect Nord, until he opened his mouth. He spoke slowly but firmly, and never once retracted anything that fell from his lips. Each word, like a sword stroke, was precise and calculated. Jorstus had served the Stormcloaks with his little sister, and still wore the fur-and-leather officer’s armor. His allegiance, much like hers, had never been truly aligned with the Stormcloak goal of a Skyrim only home to Nords; though, from the way he spoke, it sounded as if he had strayed even further from the ideals his former brothers in arms.

 

“You should know that Ulfric is looking for you, sister.” He said, putting his hands up in mock surrender and moving closer to them. “He has given orders to all the higher-ranking officers to detain you on sight. The soldiers know nothing of it.”

Lofrek sighed, his footsteps starting up again. The three of them crossed the bridge, continuing to walk forward with no true destination.  
“Looks like you got the attention you wanted, Thar,” he gave a lazy glance to his twin sister.  
“From Ulfric?” She snorted dismissively. “Let him look. I have better things to worry about than a stuck-up piece of shit calling himself High King.”  
“Even so,” Jorstus put in, “if you do not worry soon, you may be surprised what progress Ulfric can make in such a short time.”

The Last Dragonborn paused again, looking at her older brother.  
“Is that why you kicked me out of my house?”  
“Ulfric has spies,” Jorstus explained calmly, “he is no longer of a strictly military mind. Someone has convinced him to divert more manpower to seeking you out.”  
“Why? Why would he bother? He told me I was free to go after we defeated Tullius.” Tharya shrugged. The man opposite her raised an eyebrow.  
“Ulfric knows you plan to betray him, sister,” he said, his tone indicating she probably should’ve known of that fact much, much earlier than this moment. “He doesn’t know how or when but he knows you will not leave him alone, and he speculates you will work against him.”  
“Bastard’s stationed troops in every major city.” Lofrek gave her an apologetic look. Obviously, none of this had reached her ears before now. Some part of him would’ve thought the Dragonborn, of all people, would be most attuned to the worldly happenings. But perhaps her trip to Solstheim had complicated things. “It isn’t safe for you to be seen in Whiterun.”

 

Tharya turned to survey the capital of Whiterun Hold, Dragonreach sitting above all on its rocky pedestal. The city she grew up in, lived in her whole life, come to treasure, returned to when destiny gave her a moment to breathe. Ulfric knew this would be the place she would come back to first. He knew and he’d given the people of her city extra guards and imposing taxes and restricting curfews, all because the Last Dragonborn who _might_ betray them had been born and raised in their city.

“I have to take care of the vampires first,” Tharya murmured to herself, turning away from Dragonreach’s climbing figure.  
“ _Vampires?_ ” Lofrek repeated. “Is that what I just heard? You’re taking care of vampires?”  
“Not taking care of. Killing.” Jorstus clarified.  
“The vampires, that’s why I came here,” the Last Dragonborn looked between her siblings, “I was going to ask for your help. Some idiot vampire lord wants to take over the world and get rid of the sun.”  
“So the rumors of the Dawnguard reforming are true,” Jorstus said, as close to awe as Tharya had ever seen him, “a Khajiit caravan coming from the Rift not long ago spoke of it, though I wasn’t sure I believed them.”  
“Wait—what’s this _Dawnguard?_ ” Lofrek pushed himself into the conversation. “You’re talking about it as if it’s some myth that suddenly just became real.”  
“They kill vampires. You remember my old friend, Celann?”  
“You told me you don’t have old friends.”

Tharya looked at her twin.  
“Miraak said the same thing.”

“ _Miraak?_ ”

“Nevermind,” Tharya shook her head, “I need to go home. I need my armor. And dinner. We leave for Fort Dawnguard tonight, the Companions are already a day ahead of us.”  
“You spoke to the Companions?” Lofrek groaned. “You’re lucky no guards saw you.”  
“Get whatever you need but pack light. It’s going to be a...an interesting ride. I’ll meet you both back here.”  
“We don’t have a choice, do we.”

 

Tharya squeezed her spear and each side shot out, the glow dim and warm against the cold breeze that swept up the road. She was focused again, with all her attention returning to the vampire threat. Ulfric would have to wait, but she’d knock him off his high horse yet. Of that, she was sure.

“Sister,” Jorstus called after, taking a small step forward. She turned. There was something odd in his eye, a touch of...disappointment in his features, a defeated shadow crossing his face. “When we’re done here, you should return to Whiterun.”

She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t suggesting a family picnic. Her feet stopped, and she gave him a quizzical look.  
“And...do what? Turn myself in?” She tried to laugh but it didn’t come out. Jorstus blinked.  
“Come back with an army, sister.” He replied. “Or...yes. Be prepared to.”

 

The wind grew progressively colder and more violent on her walk back to the Tundra House. She didn’t dare take the road, not after her brother’s warning, and instead waded through the icy river and crossed the open field behind the house, putting out the flickering lights on either side of the door before entering. It was still dark from the morning, and the fire hadn’t been tended to all day. It created a ghastly image. She went through the door to her right and hefted open the hatch to the cellar, clambering down the ladder with Jorstus’s words echoing in her head. He didn’t really mean to suggest she turn herself in, did he?

 

Mechanically her hands undressed one of the mannequins that bordered the room, redressing it with her Dawnguard armor once she had switched that out for the Ebony Mail. It felt good to be back in her old armor, the familiar embrace of enchantment returning to her body. She had left this armor, her best and most worn, in case that bastard who tried to kill her on Solstheim succeeded. Perhaps Boethiah, one of the few Princes she’d come into contact with, would reclaim it. Perhaps her family would sell it, or bury her in it. She didn’t know why, but she had left it in Skyrim all the same.

 

“Dragonborn.”

Tharya whipped around, spear at the ready. She peered into the darkness for a brief moment before a simple gesture from her new arrival illuminated the room.

“Quaranir?”

“Dragonborn.” He nodded. “It has been some time since we spoke.” The Psijic uncrossed his arms only to fold his hands in front of him. “Since the Eye of Magnus... _situation_ , some in my order believed it imperative to continue to survey and watch you in your endeavors.”

 

“Well,” Tharya snorted, “that’s comforting. It’s been almost a year.”

“Indeed, Dragonborn. Nerien, the mage you met beneath Saarthal, suggested I be the one to oversee such a task.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“So why are you here this time? I don’t think I’ve disturbed any ancient Nord ruins in recent memory.” She leaned against her staff with a small grin touching her lips. Truly, she hadn’t expected to see the Psijic ever again, even if their brief encounters held the promise of a good companionship.

“No, indeed you have not.” Quaranir admitted, sounding exasperated. “But we have detected multiple surges of magic throughout the last month. Magic we believed long lost to the rest of Skyrim; magic we believed would remain extinct. However, some of these spells—particularly an ancient communication spell, allowing the caster to speak to another without being physically near each other—have caught our attention.”

Tharya nodded slowly. That made sense. With Miraak’s consistent calling upon her, his old magic, and Auri-El blessing her spear, her _using_ the spear...

 

“Furthermore, we’ve detected a previously unheard of magical presence that came to the continent less than a month ago.”

“And these things...?” She prompted.

“All somehow trace back to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You sure that gargoyle didn’t hit anywhere bad?”  
Miraak felt his jaw clench. He’d spent the last twenty minutes on-and-off healing the claw mark on his cheek, silently determined to not add another scar to the collection. The cut was relatively shallow, but between fighting off other skeletons and gargoyles and searching for Serana’s mother’s notebook, he hadn’t found time to heal it in one go.  
“No, _vukul_ ,” he replied finally.  
“No?” She looked up, briefly examining the parallel scar over his nose and the one splitting his brow. “Looks like someone else did.” The vampire walked towards where he was standing, just on the edge of the concentric rings in the floor. “Here—she mentions the Soul Cairn again.”  
“What is this Soul Cairn?” Miraak let his fingers fall away from his face and walked along the border of the outermost circle. “Your mother has mentioned it many times, it seems.”  
“My mother had a...a theory about soul gems.” Serana flipped through the little journal again. “She thought the souls inside of them didn’t just vanish when they were used up, they went to this place called the Soul Cairn.”  
“Why would she care about used souls?” Miraak raised an eyebrow. “They’ve been used, they have no further purpose.”  
“The Soul Cairn is home to powerful beings, who would give necromancers extraordinary powers in exchange for souls. If I remember correctly,” she peered at the journal, “my mother spent most of her time trying to contact them. To walk in the Soul Cairn herself.”

The Dragon Priest’s feet stopped, and golden eyes traveled slowly down to the rings in the floor.  
“ _Aan Miiraak._ ”

“What?”  
“ _Aan Miiraak._ A portal,” he gestured downwards to the rings, “to your mother’s Soul Cairn.”  
“Your name means portal?” Serana asked as she moved to his side, examining each circle carefully. They seemed to be made out of normal stone, but each was just slightly lower than the one before it, leading into a gentle dip in the floor.  
“ _Nid._ _Miiraak_ , the word, is spelled differently than my name.” He resisted the intense urge to roll his eyes.  
“Hold on,” Serana stopped halfway to him, fingers tracing beneath the scribbled words in the journal she held. “If I’m reading this right...it sounds like there should be a... _formula_ of some sort that we can use to get into the Soul Cairn.” She read on for a moment before sighing. “Dammit.”

He gave her a questioning look.  
“Everything else she should have here, but we need a sample of her blood. Which she obviously isn’t around to provide, or else we wouldn’t even be here in the first place.” Serana frowned. The First Dragonborn looked down to the journal, then back to the vampire.  
“You are of her blood, _vukul_ , or is she not your mother?” He did nothing to conceal the edge to his tone.  
“Mistakes with these kinds of portals can be-”  
“Violent. Do not think you can teach me about magic, _vukul_.” He muttered. “What ingredients does this formula require?”

 

  
“Let’s see...a handful of soul gem shards, finely ground bone meal, and...a generous amount of purified void salts.”

The Priest nodded after a second. Perhaps the vampire’s mother was less incompetent than her offspring.  
“Then we should start searching,” he surveyed the laboratory, “ _ahtlahzey_ will be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nid - no  
> aan miiraak - a portal (not to be confused with miraak's own name)
> 
> basically filler chapter 2...but this one came out quicker!! yay!! cool stuff happening next chapter.


	17. Valerica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miraak and serana make progress in the soul cairn, and find serana's mother; tharya and her brothers encounter an ally on the road. dovahzul translations at the end! (also, the next chapter may be a super long one so it may take a little longer to get out...)

“We should inform _ahtlahzey_ where we are going,” Miraak said finally, crossing his arms as he peered down from the upper level at the unopened portal.  
“Why are you so obsessed with her?” Serana groaned, tipping the bowl of purified void salts into the standing vessel. “She’ll be fine without us for a day or two, I’m sure. She’s the Dragonborn, she can handle herself.” The vampire met his hard gaze. “For the guy who tried to kill her, you seem to like her a whole lot.”  
“And yet she saved my life,” he bit back, growing irritated though he couldn’t place why, “in my time, debts such as that were repaid. _Ahtlahzey_ has given me my life and my freedom.” He froze. He’d said those same exact words before, but the first time he had thought them through. Now they came without hesitation, like a mechanical defense. But who had been the recipient previously?

Serana gave him a sideways glance before stepping away from the vessel, little more than a bowl melded on top of a pedestal.  
“I’m not sure what we’ll do if... _when_ we find my mother,” she admitted, though he gave little more than a disinterested grunt. “She was so sure of what we did to my father. I couldn’t help but...go along. She wanted me to get as far away from my father as possible before he really went over the edge.” The vampire looked up to him for some kind of reply, or closure, maybe even comfort. He gave none. She frowned. “Nevermind. Let’s get this portal open.”

He watched in silence as she retrieved her dagger, cupping her hand over the bowl and sliding the blade across her palm. The moment her blood soaked the salts and the shards and the bone meal, the room began to shake, tremble. Dirt sifted down from the ceiling. Serana grabbed the stone railing to steady herself. Vibrant purple light broke through the circles on the floor and they began to move, open, shift into position. For a moment they were both blinded by the illumination but gradually it subsided, the circles moving to create stairs downwards from where they stood into an abyss of light. The shaking halted.  
“She actually did it. She actually made a portal to the Soul Cairn,” Serana murmured in awe, watching the portal open for them. A new kind of magic invaded the air and Miraak stiffened; he had spent so much time in Oblivion, it was impossible to not recognize the feeling when it came to him. Did the vukul know where they were going? What they were descending into? Sanguine’s words came to the front of his mind:

 _“I asked if he could get rid of the black in your eyes.”_ _  
_ _“Yeah, yeah, Uncle Sanguine can fix your eyes. Just...don’t go back to Apocrypha. That may make it permanent.”_

He wasn’t returning to Apocrypha, but he was returning to Oblivion. The place he’d silently swore to never step foot in again, never of his own volition. After a moment he squared himself and made a small gesture for Serana to go first down the steps.

 

* * *

 

“Where exactly are we going?” Lofrek half-whined from behind her, and Jorstus, in the rear, snorted.  
“Never walked to Riverwood before, brother?” He muttered.   
“I have a cabin just outside of Riverwood.” Tharya replied, gesturing vaguely up the road. “Or, someone does, but I think they’re dead, so I took it over.” Lofrek groaned. “It’s comfortable, you’ll see.”

“No, Thar,” the dark-haired man stopped, “I mean where are we _really_ going.” The Last Dragonborn turned to face her brothers, before reaching into her backpack and fishing out a worn map.  
“Fort Dawnguard,” she announced as Jorstus drew closer to see where her finger had landed in the dim moonlight. “In the farthest eastern reaches of the Rift. Big bastard Redguard reformed the Dawnguard with the news of increased vampire attacks. When I came back from Solstheim, Celann had sent me a letter asking for my help, so Miraak and I made our way there.”

A distant roar turned their eyes to the sky, and for a brief moment a large, winged silhouette blocked out the moon.  
“Shit.”  
“Is that-”  
“A dragon,” Tharya confirmed, twirling her staff so the spear end pointed upwards. She summoned an elemental flare to her palm once the map was stuffed away, “stay close, and don’t run after it.” Immediately Jorstus and Lofrek pressed themselves into their sister’s sides, greatsword and dagger at the ready. The Last Dragonborn gave her twin a second glance.  
“That’s all you brought?” She questioned, glancing to the glass dagger in his hand. “This isn’t a picnic, we’re going to be killing vampires.”

“I’m not a warrior or a battlemage like you,” he frowned, “don’t make fun of me.”  
“Yes, you’re an illusionist. Illusions won’t help us against dragons.” Jorstus bit out.   
“You asked me to come!”

 

**_Joor...zah frul!_ **

 

Both men staggered back as a blue pulse of energy flew into the night and struck the dragon, enveloping the beast in the same colored light and seemingly pulling it down to Nirn. It landed gracelessly just before them, and a steady ward from Tharya flickered into existence in front of all three of them.  
“Die, dragon!” Jorstus lifted his sword but the beast reared its head, moving away.  
“Dovahkiin! Koraav dovah!” That voice…

Without a second thought Tharya used her spear to knock Jorstus’s sword away, approaching the dragon carefully.   
“Odahviing?” She asked.   
“ _Geh, Dovahkiin._ ” He steadied under the oppressive magic of her Dragonrend Shout, offering his nose in peace. With a growing smile, she settled a hand on his colorful scales.   
“You _know him?_ ” Lofrek asked, countenance riddled with disbelief.   
“I didn’t call for you,” she ignored him and continued talking to the dragon, “how did you find me?”   
“You thought I would leave you alone with _faal Grutiik, Dovahkiin?_ ” Odahviing snorted. “My duty is to serve you. I will not let _faal Diist Dovahkiin_...interfere.”

“Alduin _is_ dead,” she chuckled, “or gone, at least. If I died now, it wouldn’t be as much a hassle as it would’ve been a year ago.” Odahviing gave a disapproving grunt, telling her he apparently didn’t feel the same.

“Is she... _petting him?_ ”

Tharya glanced over her shoulder to give Lofrek a stern glare.

 

“There are _vukul_ approaching from the north,” the dragon said when he had her attention again. “They know you are here, _Dovahkiin_. _Zu’u mindok kolos hi los bo._ I know you are traveling to the Dawnguard. I will take you.”  
“Well,” the Last Dragonborn turned to meet her brother’s shocked gazes, “isn’t it everyone’s dream to ride a dragon?”

 

* * *

 

“I’m surprised you’re able to be here,” were Serana’s first words to him once the purple haze has subsided. “Only the undead can come here. I was going to ask to partially soul trap you, but I figured you’d find out once you walked down the stairs.”  
“Comforting, _vukul_.” He grumbled, ignoring whatever else she said in favor of surveying the plane of Oblivion around them. The sky seemed to be stuck in a constant dusk, a rich purple sunset descending eternally into a night that would never come. A sandy path snaked beneath his boots and into the low-lying fog ahead. His gaze traveled upwards from the path, to the horizon dotted with crumbling ruins that sat like dark faces against the light. Four towers sat in pairs on the left and right of where he assumed the path led.   
“How _are_ you here?” She finally asked, looking back at him. Miraak frowned for a moment.   
“Part of my soul was taken as... _payment_ when Hermaues Mora gave me the Black Book.” He said, voice steady. “More of it was leeched out during my imprisonment.”   
“Does Tharya know?”

He remained silent.

As they moved forward, phantom wisps of energy darted through the space between him and Serana, circling his arms and shooting away with hardly a sound. They passed spectres leaning against rocks and dead trees, all looking at them but never saying a word. The white fog curled around his ankles and smoothed again, as if it had never been touched.  
“This is...much calmer than any plane of Oblivion I’ve ever been in.” Serana noted from ahead of him.  
“You are a Daughter of Coldharbour,” he mused, not unkindly, “the plane of Oblivion you have seen was dominated by torture.” She spun around to send him a glare across her shoulder, and he merely continued to gaze at the sky.  
“What about you, then, Dragon Priest?” Serana said—it was less a question and more a taunt. Evidently she hadn’t caught the lack of malice in his voice.  
“I know what the Coldharbour ritual entails, vukul,” Miraak replied, “but I assure you what I endured during my...imprisonment in Apocrypha far outweighs whatever fleeting horror you faced. The Daedric Princes are not unknown for their cruelty.”  
“You think because you spent four thousand years with one your experience outweighs mine?” The vampire asked, bitter, not turning around this time.  
“I am saying-” his feet paused. Did he truly want to go on? To carry a conversation she wasn’t interested in? To...reveal so much about himself? “-I am saying we have endured some of the same grievances.”

Serana gave him a sideways glance but said nothing. He resumed walking. At least he tried—he could imagine Tharya would be proud.

“Those towers,” she made a vague gesture, to the structures he’d noted previously, “we should head for those.”

 

They moved in silence together, and he closed the gap between them, hand fixed on his sword. They passed beneath a long, triangular archway that momentarily blotted out the dim sky, sending them into near pitch blackness until they exited the other side. The path led them to a broken down plateau of black stone, jagged and coarse beneath his boots.  
“What are those?” Serana murmured to herself as they crossed it, nodding her head to a small group of upright stones just beyond the plateau. Miraak followed her gesture and looked beyond, to where more, taller stones stood, haphazardly arranged in no specific order. Some still erect, some crooked, some crumbled and toppled over.  
“Graves,” he replied. Countless of them. Their number stretched into the fog and slowly vanished. Another archway, this one much taller but shorter length-wise than the first. When the darkness passed they both stopped, staring up at the two towers before them. They were much, much closer than before. Where he expected to see a long, impending shadow across the ground of the Soul Cairn, there was none. Even as the buildings were obviously struck by light, they offered no column of darkness on the grass to affirm their presence.

  
The fog hazed the tower’s distinctions until they drew closer, and the air seemed to thin. Two sets of worn stone stairs separated by a bannister led up to the base of the tower where a tall wall of purple energy climbed even above the remains of an ancient wall that had once stood. He and Serana stepped in unison up to the barrier and after a brief moment, the vampire spoke.  
  
“...Mother?”

 

The woman on the other side of the barrier turned with an astonished look, her burning yellow eyes falling on her daughter.  
“Serana? Is it really you?”   
“How do we get inside, Mother? We have to talk.”   
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Valerica said, inching closer to the barrier, ignoring her daughter’s words, “what are you doing here? Where is your father?”

“He doesn’t know we’re here. Please, Mother, I don’t have time to explain.”  
“We?” Valerica echoed. She was silent for a moment before sighing, low and long.  
“If you’re here, I must’ve failed. Harkon’s deciphered the prophecy, hasn’t he?” She shook her head and crossed her arms, eyes scanning the lavender sky.  
“No, no no no,” Serana tried to smile, “you haven’t failed. We’re here to stop him, to make sure he can’t go through-”

“Wait a moment.” Valerica’s gaze landed on Miraak next. “You’ve brought a stranger? Who is this? Step forward.” She motioned for the Priest to come closer, but he stayed put.

“His name is Miraak—you remember the Dragon Priest Father studied for a short time? The one who rebelled?” Serana offered. “This is him.” He watched Valerica try and fail to suppress her shock. He knew exactly what her first words would’ve been:  _you should’ve been dead centuries ago._ “It’s an even longer story, Mother, and not mine to tell.”  
“I have come for _aan Kel._ The Elder Scroll. As _Dovahkiin_ my duty is to keep them safe, regardless if they hold your prophecy or not.” Miraak spoke for the first time, earning Valerica’s attention.  
“Charming,” she drawled. “If you’ve come to me, I assume you found the Elder Scroll I entrusted to you. Do you have it?”  
“We left it in a safe place,” Serana assured her mother. “With people who will protect it.” Valerica gave her a skeptical gaze.  
“Good. The moment your father discovers your role in the prophecy, that he needs to take your blood, he’d kill you without a second thought, and call it a sacrifice for the greater good.”

The three of them sat in a tense silence for a long moment.  
“I guess we’ll discuss how I’m just a pawn for you, too, later.” Serana muttered, glancing to Miraak. “For now, we need to focus on the Elder Scroll. We can’t defeat Father without it.”  
“Yes,” Valerica agreed, looking mildly distraught, “if you want the Scroll, it’s yours.”  
“Do you have it?” Serana peered around the emptiness of her mother’s makeshift cage, disappointed gaze traveling back to the woman.  
“Of course,” Valerica scoffed, “I’ve kept it safe ever since I was imprisoned. And you are both in a...fortunate position to breach the barrier that surrounds my ruins.” Before either of them could ask, she went on: “Locate the tallest of the rock spires that encircle this ruin. The energy that keeps the barrier up is being supplied by unfortunate souls who have been exiled here. Kill the ones called the Keepers, and the barrier should go down.”

 

 

“Sounds simple enough,” Serana squared her shoulders, nodding, and prepared to step away. “We’ll be back as soon as the Keepers are gone.”  
“A small bit of advice,” Valerica called, making them both swivel back to her, “a dragon roams the Cairn. He calls himself _Durnehviir_ , and the Ideal Masters charged him with overseeing the Keepers. Should they fall, he will be sure to intervene.”  
  
“A dragon?” Serana echoed, sharing a glance with Miraak. Briefly, she checked the skies before looking back to him. “I guess I’ll leave that one to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vukul - vampire  
> joor zah frul - dragonrend shout  
> koraav dovah - recognize me  
> geh - yes  
> faal Grutiik - the Betrayer; my headcanon as to what the dragons call Miraak  
> faal Diist Dovahkiin - the first dragonborn  
> zu'u mindok kolos hi los bo - i know where you are going
> 
>  
> 
> anyone else super in love with the way odahviing puts his lil snout forward because he knows tharya will hug/pet him? no? just me? solid


	18. Interlude II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morokei shows miraak and tharya just what they really did at the summit of apocrypha.

When she woke up, she was on the ground. But there was no grass, no stone road, no streams. Only darkness.  
“You must be the one my son calls _ahtlahzey_ ,” an old voice said, making her sit up with a grunt. Her fingers closed around something made of an unrecognizable material. When she looked down, a carefully carved mask with lazy slit eyes and a waterfall of curved tentacles below sat in her hand. Miraak’s. But he had left it in Winterhold...hadn’t he?  
  
Without knowing why she clutched the mask and stood up, rubbing her temple with her free hand.  
“Where am I?”  
“There is no such name for this place, _ahtlahzey_.” She spun to greet the voice’s owner, coming face to face with a frail older man with long hair and superb red robes. He still towered over her by at least a foot.  
“Who are you?” She peered at him as he leaned on a familiar staff with a dragon head carved into the top.  
“To you, I am known as Morokei,” he straightened slowly. “ _Dovah Sonaak._ I have come to...enlighten you, _ahtlahzey_ , if you will have it.”

“Morokei,” she repeated, “you’re a Dragon Priest. You nearly killed me inside Labyrinthian.”  
“The skeleton you fought was merely a former husk of myself, Dragonborn,” Morokei nodded in understanding, “with nothing but raw power and shattered will. As are all the others.”  
“Then how are you here?” Tharya took a hesitant step backwards, her shoulders hitting a hard wall.  
“He believes himself a teacher.” Large hands settled on her shoulders from behind and guided her aside. Her eyes widened--that wasn’t a wall at all.  
“What are _you_ doing here?”

 

Miraak’s golden gaze didn’t meet hers but she knew he heard her question. Tharya could read his silence, though, and took it to mean he didn’t know the reason for his presence either.  
“ _Dii kul_ ,” Morokei bowed his head slowly towards the First Dragonborn. “I have brought you both here to make you understand.”  
“We are not interested in your prophecy, _wuth mun_. There are more valuable actions to be taken in the mortal world than listening to you preach.” Miraak scoffed, crossing his arms.  
“And when did you become so infatuated with the dealings of the mortal world, _dii kul?_ Much less its protection?” Morokei watched the other Priest’s features shift into veiled surprise before the telltale frown claimed his face again. “You need to understand what was written by Fate for both of you; what you thwarted without so much as a thought.”

 

Before either of them could protest, the darkness fell away into the painfully familiar acidic skies of Apocrypha, the towers and woven platforms that created the very summit they had saved each other on. A sick feeling entered Miraak’s stomach but before he could even think about it a tentacle impaled him from behind, breaking his skin and pushing through his organs to the other side.  
“ _Miraak!"_  The voice belonged to the Last Dragonborn and she took a heavy step towards him but seemed to be locked into place, staff--with no spear, no blessing--in hand. Another tentacle slid up his arm and carelessly flicked the mask off his face; when had he put it on?

 

“ _Did you think you could_ **_escape me_ ** _, Miraak?_ ”

 

He knew that voice, he knew it all too well. Hermaeus Mora sounded guttural, furious, but oddly content.  
  
“ _You can hide_ **_nothing_ ** _from me here!”_ A slow, drawn-out laugh. “ _No matter. I have found....another Dragonborn to serve me._ ”

  
_"A-ahtlah..zey..._ ” blood flooded his throat, the edges of his vision went hazy. He was dying. This was it. Finally, after four thousand years, he would die. Some part of him was almost glad for it; glad for the release from this prison, glad for the carelessness, for the weight that would be lifted from his soul. A grotesque gargling sound pulled his attention back to Tharya, where she was hacking uselessly at tendrils coiled around her ankles. “May she be rewarded...for her service,” he pushed meekly at the tentacle through his chest, “as I am.”

 

The silmy appendage slipped away, as did the rest of Apocrypha, of Hermaeus Mora, of the countless eyes and tentacles. He was left in the darkness, collapsing to the unseen floor, and a familiar presence rushed towards him.  
“Miraak,” Tharya breathed, gathering his limp body in her arms. His head wilted back against her collarbone.  
“ _Ahtlahzey,_ ” he replied, searching her clear gaze for the same carefree comfort she had always given him. But it was not there anymore. She was concerned, worried, angry, confused.

 

“Mere seconds have passed in your mortal world,” Morokei sighed, approaching quietly from the side, “and you will return with no knowledge of our meeting. But its importance remains...distinct.”  
“Miraak, listen to me,” the warmth of a healing spell pressed to his chest but it dissipated almost immediately. “You’ll be alright. Stay with me. Miraak?”

 

One shaking hand lifted from the darkness. It took all the strength left in his body to merely brush his fingertips against her lips, his hands cold and soaked with blood.  
“Tharya,” he croaked, feeling the corners of his mouth tug upwards.  
“What did you do?!” She turned now to Morokei, fuming. “What the hell did you do? Undo it! He’s dying!”  
“Always remember the fate you have cheated, Dragonborns.” Morokei gave a solemn nod towards the Dragon Priest in her arms. Her gaze traveled downwards again, expecting to see the same oddly peaceful golden eyes staring back up at her. But they weren’t. Miraak had grown still, pallid, his hand falling from her lips like a dead branch. “Never forget that you have rewritten every history book that remains unwritten. You hold the quill, now.”  
“Miraak,” she fisted his robe, cupping one hand under his chin, “wake up. Wake up, it’s over now. None of it happened.” No response. “ _Miraak_ ,” she tried, tears brimming her eyes, “Miraak, don’t leave me.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Miiiiiraaaaak._ Are you listening to me?”

He blinked and jerked away from Serana’s hand in front of his face, fingers falling to his sword. What was that? Why had he been so...spaced out? There was an odd tightness in his chest and throat that sent an unsettled chill down his spine.  
“Get away from me, nightcrawler.” He rumbled, shouldering past her. Serana frowned, placing her hands on her hips and following after him, mocking in a low voice:  
“ _Get away from me, nightcrawler._ ”

 

“Thar! Can you hear me? Gods, it’s like talking to a wall.” Lofrek rolled his eyes, but with the next snap of his fingers his twin bolted upright.  
“What? Are we under attack? What’s going on?” She babbled, grip tightening on her spear.  
“Woah, no, no. You were just having a wonderful little daydream while I was asking you where Jorstus was.” Lofrek raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you okay?” The Last Dragonborn nodded, dragging a hand down her face. Was she?

 

Tharya turned to look at Whiterun, sighing heavily.  
“Jorstus will come,” she said, although her mind was still occupied with whatever kind of trance she’d been in before. It was itching in the back of her brain, the knowledge of where she’d been or what she’d done. That, and there was a strange, tingling feeling that lingered like poison on her lips. “We’ll just have to wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovah Sonaak - dragon priest  
> dii kul - my son  
> ahtlahzey - archmage  
> wuth mun - old man


	19. The Soul Cairn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> valerica, miraak, and serana obtain the elder scroll, and another unlikely ally along the way; miraak reveals his greatest power; tharya and her brothers receive surprise help and are visited by some vampires looking to exact revenge. dovahzul translations at the end!

“Watch out!” 

Miraak grunted as he shoved Serana out of the way. A large bone arrow separated them, too close to taking off his leg for comfort. He picked himself up off the cold stones. This was the third such Keeper they’d encountered, and yet every weapon was different. The creatures were at least a foot taller than him, and seemed to be _made_ of armor rather than wearing it. They had no distinct bodily features, indeed he didn’t believe there was a body at all. Their faces were not unlike the black, smoky masses that Hermaeus Mora chose to manifest in, except two beady, glowing blue eyes peered down at him and Serana from the darkness.  
  
“What I wouldn’t give for that stupid spear right now,” Serana called to him as they circled the Keeper. The creature took loud, large steps away from them, readying another arrow.  
“We’ll have to make do,” Miraak uttered under his breath. He switched his grip on his staff so he held it like a javelin, knuckles turning white around the wood. He Shouted another arrow off its intended path and it clattered uselessly to the ground. The Keeper made a disgruntled noise. A crimson burst of magic enveloped his staff and soon it was coated in wispy energy, which materialized into an ethereal double-edged sword. “Hold this,” he grunted, handing it off to Serana.

He drew his sword as he approached the beast. Tharya’s sword, more accurately, the one she had gifted him outside Dragon Bridge. The one that set things on fire. The Keeper reached into its quiver for another arrow, notched it against the Dragonbone bow, just as Miraak raised the sword. He could feel the enchantment springing to life, encasing the blade, giving it that distant red glow before it erupted into flames. 

  
Now _that_ was more like it.

 

He planted his feet on the stone and spun the sword on his fingertips. The arrow left the bow with an echoing _thwang_. 

 

The Dragon Priest smacked it aside with the flat of the blade--a highly calculated, risky move, but one he’d learned years ago--and moved forward. The Keeper grunted as it reached for another arrow, but Miraak drew closer, closer, breaking into a run, raising the blade above his head and giving a triumphant roar, swinging Tharya’s sword towards one bone-armored leg, and then-

 

It shattered.

 

He hardly had time to register the broken blade in his hands when the Keeper half-turned to him, heel connecting with the Atmoran’s body and kicking him backwards into one of the stone pillars. It cracked, centuries of dust sifting downwards from the ceiling. Miraak groaned, clutching at his abdomen, before hearing the pillar begin to split and squeal under the building pressure. Soon enough it gave way, crumbling towards its left, knocking into the very center of its neighboring column. His eyes widened.  
“Now, _vukul_ , now, now, now!” He shouted. Serana looked startled but adjusted her hand on the staff and readied herself before launching it directly into the Keeper’s chestplate.

 

The First Dragonborn hurriedly cast a ward to protect himself from the falling rock, tripping his way over the toppling ruins to safety as the Keeper fell to its knees with an agonized moan.  
“That’s what you get.” Serana spat, looking confident. The spell surrounding his staff disappeared and the Keeper’s head felt listlessly downwards, gauntlet hands trying to wriggle the staff free. With one last roar, it decided to break the protruding part away, and hurled it towards Miraak.

 

His staff and his sword both broken, he found it harder and harder to contain the pure amounts of _rage_ bubbling in his veins. He had decided he would keep that sword safe, keep it well-tended to, and yet, here it lay, shattered and gone. Miraak forced his fists to open and aimed them for one of the larger pieces of rubble lying not far away, a brownish telekinesis magic enveloping both hand and stone. The boulder shook before lifting from the ground, and began to climb, hovering just above the Keeper’s unsuspecting, amorphous head.  
“ _Pahkolos hi los bo, fun niin Miraak ris hi._ ” He growled. His grip on the stone diminished and down it came, breaking through the Keeper’s spectral features and landing with a crash on the ground. The Dragonbone armored body fell with it, deflating around the unseen bones of the creature. Before their eyes, it dissolved away, similar to a dragon just after death, into hazy purple flakes that shot up to meet the sky.

 

**_Yol...toor shul!_ **

 

A bout of flames flew from his lips and rattled what was left of the Keeper’s remains, sending scattered bones flying and even shifting the piles of debris from the collapsed columns.  
“Miraak-”

He cut her off with an anguished roar, aimed towards the sky. He had no need for her consolation now. 

 

 _“I kept this at the College because that’s where I thought I’d be for most of my life.” She looked up at him with a glimmer of hope, a smile touching her lips. He watched her rub the gem on the hilt affectionately, and offered the hilt to him. Their fingers brushed when he took it. “I’m not sure why I took it. But I think you’ll make better use of it than I will.” He took it, the shock of an enchantment dancing up his arm. “It sets things on fire,” she smiled, “and it belonged to one of my ancestors, so be careful.” She smiled again and his fingers tightened on the hilt_.

 

That had been the moment, the moment she’d handed it over with the unspoken question, and he’d taken it with the unspoken promise. Her trust in him had taken a turning point just then, and he thought it would take them to a different...a different stance on each other. But now he’d broken it, the sword she loved so much, the sword he had promised to keep safe for her, even if she entrusted it to him. He’d broken the sword, and the promise.

 

“Miraak?”

He turned to face Serana, one eyebrow raised.  
“ _Vukul._ ” He acknowledged, voice tight and low.  
“You feel alright?” She looked over his features cautiously. “Your eyes...” He looked at her for more. “Can you feel anything wrong?”  
“Either tell me what’s going on, _vukul_ , or stop looking at me like I am an animal on display.” He grunted. The Priest pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the furious shaking of his arms. 

 

_Don’t go back to Apocrypha. That may make it permanent._

The words struck him like a blade through the heart.  
“I don’t know...this sounds crazy but I think they’re a different color.” Serana went on with hesitance.

“Z _u’u los ni_ ,” he breathed, feeling dread trickle into his heart, “ _Zu’u los ni ko Apocrypha._ ”

_That may make it permanent._

He rubbed his eyes like a child and flexed his fingers. _Zu’u los ni ko Apocrypha. Zu’u los ni ko Apocrypha._ It became a chant in his head, and he repeated it countless times. Like a spell; like a ward. As if his words would protect him anymore.

 

Whipping around, he grabbed for Serana’s shoulders.  
“What color, _vukul?_ ” He demanded as she tried to wriggle away. “ _Dii miinne._ What color are they?” He knew the answer. He knew the answer, the word that was about to tumble from her lips, but he refused to give in to it. He was stronger than that. He had overcome the Daedric taint once, he would do it again. He was above such petty magic. Serana tried to push him away but his grip only tightened. “A color, _vukul!_ ” He shouted.

She looked up at him with a steady, poisonous gaze that darted between his eyes. _Say it. Say it. Say it._  
“Black,” she spat out at long last, and he allowed her to wrench herself away. As if he’d been punched, the Dragon Priest moved backwards. After everything he’d done, everything he’d been through, everything Tharya had done to save him, after all this...

 

_Zu’u los ni ko Apocrypha._

 

* * *

 

“I wonder how Miraak’s doing,” Tharya muttered to herself. Lofrek looked up from the little fire, prodding it with a twig.  
“You have to tell us about this Miraak fellow, Thar.” He leaned back to watch his sister glance at him over her shoulder.  
“Don’t listen, Odahviing,” she advised the dragon perched beside their little camp. He only gave a disinterested grunt. The Last Dragonborn sat with a low sigh across the fire, stretching out on her bedroll and placing her spear beside her. “I suppose you’ll meet him soon enough. Have either of you ever heard of the Dragon Cult?”  
“Only in legends,” Jorstus replied, “a group of priests who worshiped and served under the dragons, long before Ysgramor came to Skyrim.”  
“Exactly,” Tharya nodded, “he’s one of those priests.”

 

A moment of disbelieving silence before Lofrek snorted.  
“That’s ridiculous. Didn’t you kill all the dragons? If he’s one of those priests, he must be...thousands of years old.” He broke off another crust from the bread in his hand.  
“He is,” she shrugged, “though he’s also just a few years older than me. His name is Miraak; the dragons call him _Faal Grutiik._ The Betrayer.” Lofrek hummed, chugging the rest of his mead.  
“Why’s that?”  
“Did you _only_ pack food?” Jorstus muttered, glancing to his little brother.  
“Because he rebelled against the Cult.” Tharya replied.  
“Because they’re are repressive lizards with wings?”  
“Because he had the power,” she corrected, “one of the Daedric Princes gave him something called a Black Book, and more or less, as I understand it, manipulated him into using his power as Dragonborn against the Cult-”

“Wait. _Wait._ ” Lofrek froze. “He’s Dragonborn too?” Tharya snorted at her brother, looking at him through the flames.

  
“The first. A little ironic, if you think about it. The First and Last Dragonborn teaming up.” Her eyes traveled to the stars, winking down at the four of them. Miraak had been quietly amazed at the amount of stars in the sky the last night they’d spent on Solstheim, just before leaving. The first time he woke up had been in Neloth’s big mushroom tower, and more or less against his will she had helped him outside to see the stars. It was better than peering through the tiny windows from his spot stuck in bed.  
“Sounds like...not the kind of person you bring home.” Lofrek muttered.

 

Tharya closed her eyes and turned on her side, a small smile gracing her lips.  
“Good thing he hasn’t been to Whiterun yet, then.”

 

* * *

 

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you would be able to destroy all three Keepers. I’m impressed.” Valerica eyed them both peculiarly, and Miraak wished the barrier was still between them. When he didn’t reply, Serana spoke up.  
“Well, we did. Can you take us to the Scroll?” She asked, watching her mother sigh.  
“Follow me.” Valerica gestured for them to walk with her, and moved towards a pair of immensely tall stone doors that led out of her prison into the Boneyard behind it. “Keep watch for Durnheviir. If he knows the prison barrier is down, he’ll most certainly come investigate.”

 

The Boneyard was nothing but a big, open courtyard, like something that belonged to one of the ancient Cyrodiilic castles. The fog was thicker here, and their path was obscured, but lined with more headstones. Dead, dry bushes remained motionless at their feet. The courtyard seemed to be the most intact ruin of the Soul Cairn, with the majority of columns and stone still in place. For a moment the dim light was cut off, before a rumbling roar from above ordered their attention to the sky.  
“It’s Durnehviir!” Valerica cried, closing ranks with Serana. Miraak pushed forward, though, towards the center of the courtyard.

 

**_Mul...qah diiv!_ **

 

His Thu’um seemed to shake the entire Soul Cairn, making the ruins creak in protest. An ethereal magic sheathed his form, blinding for a second before settling into the pointed, jagged scales down his shoulders and arms, the horns of a dragon protruding from his hairline. It was the color of red hot fire, burnished gold, a sunset tainted with blood. The ground beneath him began to tremble.  
“Miraak!” Serana shouted, taking a lingering step forward. Valerica yanked her backwards.  
“ _Zu’u los Dovahkiin,_ ” he whispered to himself, fists glowing. Pain shot through his shoulders but he ignored it as two wraithlike wings sprouted from his Dragon Aspect. But he was not done. “ _Zu’u los Dovahkiin._ ” He said again, this time louder, entire body beginning to shake with the sheer amount of power entering him. Lightning split the Soul Cairn’s sky, deafening thunder shaking the entirety of Oblivion. 

 

“ _Zu’u...los...Dovahkiin!_ ”

 

An explosion of smoke and furious orange magic left Serana and Valerica rendered sightless for a moment, but when they blinked away the dots clouding their vision they were assaulted with a monstrous, guttural, dragon screech that rung in their ears, rattled them to the very core. One flick of the tail cleared the fog that swirled around the ground, and they got the full view.

 

In front of them sat a dragon whose entire body was the gold-stained-red color of Miraak’s eyes, before their reclamation by the taint. Bigger than Durnehviir by far, stronger, with wings that could easily envelop the entire ruin. It craned its head to let out another bone-rattling roar, this one more angry. When the beast swiveled to look at them Serana instantly recognized the black eyes, with murky green pupils staring back at her.  
“That’s...that’s him.” She breathed. The dragon snorted roughly before looking to Durnehviir.  
  
“ _Zu’u los dovah,_ ” he rumbled, “ _qiilaan uv dir._ ”  
“You impress me, _zeymah_ . But I am unable to abandon my _heyv_ , my duty to this place.” Durnehviir replied.  
“ _Qiilaan uv dir,_ ” Miraak repeated, although there was no hint of his own voice to be heard in the dragon’s, “you will not stop us.”

“Then you leave me little choice, _zeymah_. _Krosis._ ” Durnehviir shifted. “I regret that you will be subject to-”

The golden dragon leapt forward without warning and closed its jaw around Durnehviir’s neck, making the other beast screech in pain, writhing to get away. But there was no mercy, and with one erratic move Miraak ripped Durnehviir’s head clean off his neck. 

 

They watched as, just like the Keepers had, the dead dragon’s corpse was enveloped in a grim purple light. Unlike the Keepers, it didn’t begin to flake away, but rather was sucked up by the light and vanished.  
“By the gods,” Valerica murmured. The golden dragon turned to them.  
“ _Vukul. Faal Kel._ ” It rumbled. Though there was no hint of his voice, his speech made it clear to her that he _was_ in there, somewhere, and was very aware of what was going on.  
“Does Tharya know you can turn into a dragon, too?” Serana asked, still in awe. Valerica grabbed her arm and began to move across the courtyard, circling Miraak. “A _golden_ dragon?”

“ _Rek fen mindos. Ahtlahzey_ will learn, in due time.” He replied. 

 

“He may be back,” Valerica called up to Miraak, “every volume I’ve read said Durnehviir can’t be slain by normal means. It’s possible you merely...displaced his physical form. He could reconstitute himself and return,” the vampire offered, but watched as the dragon huffed and turned himself to face her. Something said he didn’t seem too happy with the idea Durnehviir had survived. “But of course. You can just kill him again.”

 

For the first time in forever, Miraak felt...at peace. There was something therapeutic about his transformation. It had been fueled by rage and what he thought to be guilt, perfect enhancers for the kind of vengeful magic he needed. He felt comfortable in his own skin, ready for...something. Moving _out_ of dragon form was exponentially more painful than going _in_. His wings went first, sliding back into his shoulderblades as his powerful body slipped away into the mortal one he claimed. The rest was an agonized blur that left him sprawled on the stone.

 

He groaned as he sat up, head pounding. It had been...centuries since he’d last undergone such a transformation. He had once got the ridiculous thought in his head that he could beat Hermaeus Mora as a dragon, while Mehrunes Dagon pushed relentlessly against the veil of Oblivion, weakening it just to enter Tamriel in his true form. The _Oblivion Crisis_ , the people had called it. But Hermaeus Mora had beaten him then, just as he had a million times before and a million times after.

  
“You have proven yourself to be true _dovah_ , _zeymah_.” He scrambled to his feet, flames encasing his fingertips as he readied to stave off Durnehviir a second time. “Stay your magic. I wish to speak with you, _Qahnaarin._ ” The Dragon Priest didn’t move. “I have never seen such a power as yours, _Qahnaarin_. I come only asking for your name.” Durnehviir bowed his head in humility.  
“If I told you, you would not like it, _zeymah_.” Miraak replied after clearing his throat. Durnehviir gave him an odd look, shifting his wings. “ _Hi los ni dion?_ ”

“I cannot die, _Qahnaarin_.” The dragon explained. “I am cursed to exist in this wretched place for eternity, in the space between life and death.” 

Miraak examined him for the first time. He was stuck in a constant state of decay, it seemed, with bones poking through his wings and noticeable holes in his scaly underbelly. He looked dead, or dying at the very least. “I have never once been felled in the field of battle, _zeymah_. But you have proven yourself worthy of the honor-name _Qahnaarin_. I have come to ask a humble favor of you.”

 

Miraak unconsciously slid a hand through his hair, letting it fall limp back to his side. His entire body felt cold and warm at the same time, racked by chills and sweat beading on his brow. His muscles ached.  
“I am not one for favors, _zeymah_.” He replied, wishing the dragon would cut the formalities and ask him so he could pass out already.  
“For countless years I’ve roamed the Soul Cairn, pressed into... _unintended_ service to the Ideal Masters,” Miraak blinked rapidly to quell the haze entering his vision, “but before that I roamed the skies of Tamriel. It is there I wish to return.”  
“I have no magic that can grant your favor,” Miraak replied truthfully, “you are bound to this place.”  
“You have the blessing of the Thu’um, _Qahnaarin_. I would place my name with you and ask that you call it from Tamriel, that I may be summoned and return once more.”

“And in return?” He asked.  
“I will pledge myself to be your _Grah-Zeymahzin,_ your ally, should you ask it of me.” The old dragon straightened himself up. Miraak nodded slowly. Tharya had done some recruiting of her own, but now...maybe he could carry out some conscripting as well.  
“Very well, _zeymah_.” He gave Durnehviir a nod. “I will speak your name to the heavens when the time is right.”  
“I am indebted to you, _Qahnaarin._ ” The dragon seemed to wilt a little at the thought of serving another master, but nevertheless he remained triumphant before taking flight. Someone had listened to his proposal; someone had agreed. He would feel the sun on his scales sooner than he thought.

  
“Yes,” Miraak grinned, “you are.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for everything, Odahviing.” Tharya hugged the dragon’s nose as best she could.  
“ _Hi los valokein_ , _Dovahkiin_.” He rumbled in reply, nudging her towards the woods. “Should you require me further, I will come.”

 

He disappeared above the clouds and left them alone just outside the path leading to Dayspring Canyon.  
“Nice to actually see it,” Tharya kicked away some of the snow to reveal the traveled dirt footpath below, “first time I came here was during a blizzard.”  
“Honestly, I don’t know how you haven’t died by now,” Lofrek chortled, watching as his sister squeezed her spear and in it went. “Between dragons and ancient Dragonborns and the weather that seems to always be against you, one of those things should’ve killed you by now.”  
“And the vampires,” Jorstus added.  
“Yes, don’t forget us, Dragonborn.”

 

They all jolted at the new voice, weapons immediately coming to the ready. Tharya squinted against the sunset reflecting off the snow, looking between the trees.  
“Who’s there?” She called as Jorstus and Lofrek drew closer to her.  
“Lord Harkon sent us to find you and your little vampire hunter friends,” a second voice hissed, this one from behind. “But we thought we’d kill you first, for what you did to our clansmen.”  
“That was them?” She asked, hoping this was just some terrible dream and she’d wake up in a second. “In the tavern? Honest mistake, really. My hand slipped. You know how ale is. Muddles the senses.”  
“We’re not interested in your jokes, Dragonborn,” a swift movement between the trees that made them all jolt, the spear extending again, “you will pay for their lives with yours...and then the lives of your little _Dawnguard_.”  
“I’ll come quietly if you let these two go,” Tharya spoke firmly, nodding to her brothers, “they aren’t part of this fight.”  
“Thar! What are you doing?” Lofrek hissed from her left.

 

“It’s too late now, Dragonborn.”  
“Take a good look, Dragonborn,” a pair of burning yellow eyes revealed itself, “for you will never see the sun rise again.”

Startled, Tharya turned to look into the sky, watching the last sliver of sunlight descend until it vanished behind the mountains. She groaned as they were all enveloped in sudden darkness.  
“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pahkolos hi los bo, fun niin Miraak ris hi - wherever you are going, tell them miraak sent you (ooh edgy)  
> yol toor shul - fire breath shout  
> Zu’u los ni (ko Apocrypha) - i am not (in apocrypha)  
> dii minne - my eyes  
> mul qah diiv - dragon aspect shout (miraak's dragon aspect has crotch spikes i'll never get over that)  
> zu'u los dovahkiin - i am dragonborn  
> Zu’u los dovah...qiilaan uv dir - i am dragon...submit or die  
> zeymah - brother/brethren/kin  
> krosis - sorry, sorrow, to feel sorrow  
> faal kel - the scroll  
> rek fen mindos - she will learn  
> qahnaarin - vanquisher  
> hi los ni dion - you are not dead?  
> Hi los valokein - you are welcome


	20. The Final Reading (END OF PART 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dexion reads the final elder scroll for the dawnguard, setting them on an entirely new journey to obtain the weapon that can defeat harkon and end the prophecy: auriel's bow.  
> (canon/questline divergent i know, i apologize; also an important note at the end!)

“ _Ahtlahzey,_ ” he said quietly, approaching her slumped form by the fireplace. They had arrived at Fort Dawnguard within minutes of each other, exhausted and beaten and wanting nothing more than a meal and a bed. He had been concerned when he saw the blood coating her face and the spots of it on who he assumed to be her brothers, but she had waved off all help with a disinterested grumble. Now here she sat, nursing a broken arm after she’d completely spent herself on healing her siblings, half-asleep in front of the fire.  
“Is the old man reading the Scroll?” She murmured into her shoulder. Miraak hummed affirmative. “Tell me what it says.”  
“Come hear for yourself, _ahtlahzey_.” He insisted. She mumbled something incoherent but it sounded like a refusal. “Come. You and I have worked far too hard for you to not be there.”

  
She looked up at him and he felt _something_ flood his veins. He couldn’t quite tell what, but he guessed it was something akin to...regretful comfort. He had missed her presence sorely, more than he would ever admit to himself or her, and the pain and exhaustion in her eyes was clear. He regretted bringing her to do this, but she needed to be there. For her or for him, he didn’t know.  
“What happened to your eyes?” With her good arm she reached for his fingers, pulling his hand into her grip. “I thought we checked that off the list.”  
“Oblivion’s taint is not limited to Apocrypha,” Miraak said after a moment. It was only a theory, but it was all he had. “Hermaeus Mora’s influence is singular and unique, but Oblivion feeds on living beings such as myself collectively. Perhaps it was too soon to return.”  
“Is it permanent?” Worry etched into the lines of her warpaint, and when he didn’t reply she squeezed his hand. “We’ll get it figured out, okay?” With a groan, Tharya pushed herself out of the chair, wincing with every movement. “We’ll fix it somehow. Don’t worry about it.” She patted his chest and nodded to the group waiting quietly in the rotunda. “Come on. Let’s get this damn thing over with.”

 

He followed close behind, noting there was a slight limp to her gait, and she walked slow. Every step seemed to be an effort. He was hardly better himself; beyond tired, his body sore, his mind hazy and useless. The two of them completed the loose circle around Dexion, consisting of Serana, Celann, Tharya’s brothers, Isran, and a young Nord recruit who looked antsy.  
  
“As you may know, my sight is...failing,” Dexion said once they were settled. “As is to be expected when one reads an Elder Scroll without the proper rituals. It is likely that...well, this will be the last time my services can be provided,” he smiled faintly to everyone, “and yours will be the last faces I see.”

 

“We appreciate your sacrifice, Dexion,” Tharya spoke up, giving the man a nod, “you’ve done much more than anyone could’ve asked of you. Without you this whole operation would’ve gone belly-up,” she chuckled weakly, “and Tamriel with it.” The Moth Priest bowed his head.  
“Thank you, Dragonborn.” He eyed Miraak for a second, gaze lingering before extending his hands towards Serana for the Scroll. “I have not come to terms with it yet but...I suppose it does not matter. One life remains insignificant to the threat of millions.”

Miraak felt the Last Dragonborn exhale slowly and lean into his side, clutching his hand again like driftwood to a drowning man. He let her.

 

Dexion took the Scroll and traced its ebony casing slowly.  
“This scroll will lead you to Auriel’s Bow,” he announced, now speaking to the group as a whole, “it is imperative you find the Bow as quickly as possible. The longer it remains out there, the longer it remains open for vampire acquisition.”  
“We’ll put people on it immediately,” Isran said, gruff as ever, “we’ll get the Bow before the vampires do, of that you have my word.”  
“Good. It is not putting it lightly to say the fate of the world rests upon your actions.” He looked at the Scroll briefly before tearing his gaze away. “Dragonborns,” Dexion looked at them one last time, “it has truly been an honor.”

 

Miraak felt something in his heart shift.  
“The honor has been ours, _Rak Sonaak._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!!! i am SO GLAD to be posting this little end to part 1...but have no fear, because part 2 will be coming very very soon. it won't be a separate piece, but it will be marked by a larger time skip into the quest "touching the sky". i'm not sure where yet; perhaps when they first enter the forgotten vale or perhaps just before they acquire auriel's bow. just wanted everyone to know that there WILL be a skip in between because i've been super busy and got some terrible family news recently, and i just don't have it in me to write all that filler. hope that's okay for everyone!! thank you so much for reading, we'll be back before you know it >:)
> 
> PS. we reached 40,000 words! WOOOHOOO  
> PPS. please PLEASE keep leaving comments. i absolutely love reading them and they make me smile so much, especially in this tough time i've been thrown into, they really mean so much to me.


	21. In the Chantry of Auri-El

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back! i'm super happy to be cranking out these chapters at such a quick pace...also super lucky i actually have the time to write now. next chapter may take a few more days, since it'll be a little longer (this one is a bit shorter than normal chapter length, which is about 2300 words). part 2 has begun!!

“Come forward, friends. You have nothing to fear here.”

 

Tharya paused just ahead of them, motioning for them to do the same. The cave was shrouded by darkness but ahead of them was bathed in light, a lake of some sort surrounding what looked to be the ceiling of a collapsed altar. Ruins of white stone dotted the open area. In the center, a tall, broad figure, who stood to greet them as they approached.

  
Tharya blinked against the sudden light, squinting as the figure approached. He was...an elf. Taller than an Altmer with skin whiter than snow, fine hair that stood upright and sharp, defining features.  
“I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor. You are in the Great Chantry of Auri-El,” he gave a flourishing gesture around them, “welcome.”  
“Dexion didn’t tell us the Scroll would be in a temple to Auri-El,” Serana whispered from behind, flicking her hood down.  
“Auriel, Auri-El, Alkosh, Akatosh...there are many different names given to the sovereign.” Miraak’s gaze centered on the elf before them, before he seemed to have a revelation.

“You are a Snow Elf,” Miraak stated, looking at the fair-skinned Mer in wonder.  
“And you are an Atmoran,” Gelebor’s nose wrinkled, “not one intent on serving the purpose of your forefathers, I hope.”  
“The Night of Tears happened after my time,” Miraak shook his head, “I served the Cult many years ago.” Tharya looked back at Serana, who only shrugged, and then up at Miraak.  
“What are you talking about?” She asked.  
“You know of Saarthal, _ahtlahzey_?” He replied, watching her groan. Apparently she did. “It was the first permanent Atmoran settlement made after Ysgramor’s fleet landed on the Broken Cape.” Miraak glanced to Gelebor. “Their true motives remain a mystery, but...the native _Odlihll_ , the Snow Elves, attacked, killing all except Ysgramor and his sons.” The Last Dragonborn nodded slowly, brief recognition crossing her eyes. Perhaps she had interacted with Saarthal before, or heard of its history.

“No matter,” Gelebor waved his hand once, “what matters is that you are here.”  
“Snow Elves,” Serana repeated, “like the Falmer?”  
“The Falmer are twisted bastards,” Tharya shook her head, “hardly sentient anymore.” Gelebor frowned.  
“I prefer the term Snow Elf. _Falmer_  often holds a...negative connotation.” He explained, watching as the Last Dragonborn nodded in understanding. “Those ‘twisted bastards’ you call Falmer, I call the Betrayed.”  
“Well, Knight-Paladin Gelebor,” Tharya planted her spear tip against the ground, “my name is Tharya, the Last Dragonborn. This is Miraak and Serana,” she gestured to each of them in turn, “I assume you know why we’re here.”  
“There is only one reason people come to this place, Tharya, the Last Dragonborn,” Gelebor nodded as Serana contained a chuckle, “you have come for Auri-El’s Bow. I can help you obtain it, but I must ask for your assistance first.”  
“Anything for the Bow,” Serana quipped, looking at Tharya.

“I need you to kill another,” Gelebor’s features turned grim, “Arch-Curate Vyrthur.”  
“Any specific reason?” Tharya questioned. It seemed a simple enough request, but she’d gone through enough of these kinds of requests before just to have them end up badly.

  
Gelebor shifted uncomfortably, exhaling a long, low sigh.  
“I do not understand what he has become. I believe his...transformation can be faulted to the Betrayed. They did something to him, but I do not know what. I don’t see why Auri-El allowed such a thing to happen.” 

 

“Sometimes things that happen aren’t mandated by the gods,” she said gently, making Gelebor give her a critical look. “What did the Betrayed do that changed the Arch-Curate so much?”  
“They invaded the Chantry without warning and began killing everyone,” the Knight-Paladin replied, his voice growing. It was a raw wound, obviously, and one he didn’t take lightly. “We could not fight back. The Chantry is a place of worship, not battle. Our small force of paladins were no match for the Betrayed’s numbers.”  
“Why would they do such a thing?” Serana sounded disturbed, sympathetic. The feeling was understandable; if the Snow Elves had been wiped out so long ago like the scholars believed, it wasn’t a stretch to assume they were looking at the last living Snow Elf in front of them. And they were about to kill another.  
“I do not know,” Gelebor admitted, “but they stormed the Inner Sanctum where I believe they corrupted Vyrthur.”

Miraak snorted quietly. If they had stormed the Inner Sanctum, and their forces were as sheer and terrible as Gelebor implied, then how could he be certain the Arch-Curate was alive? He found it unlikely that the Falmer, mindless beings as Tharya described them, would leave anyone alive.  
“Arch-Curate Vyrthur is likely dead, _Odlihll_ ,” the First Dragonborn said after a damp silence. “If the attack was as terrible as you describe.”  
“He’s alive; I’ve seen him.” Gelebor blinked, eyes cast downwards, as if trying to recall the last time he’d seen the Arch-Curate. “Something is wrong, though, he never seems to be in pain...he simply stands there and watches.”  
“You cannot go after him yourself?” Miraak suggested. They had come for the Bow, and he saw no reason to carry out meaningless assassinations for Snow Elves to obtain it.  
“I cannot leave the wayshrine unguarded, it would violate my sacred duty,” Gelebor said defensively, aiming a hard gaze at the Dragon Priest. Miraak gave him a disbelieving look, gesturing around the open cave.  
“I see no wayshrines, _Odlihll._ ” A gentle nudge from Tharya told him he was barking up the wrong tree.  
“I will show you.” Gelebor’s hands lit up with an unrecognizable spell, encasing him in a golden aura. He stalked away from the trio and out into the shallow water, towards the dome roof sitting there. He cast the spell and a low hum began to emanate from the golden sun affixed to the top of the dome, and it began to glow.

The ground rumbled for a moment before a square tower of clean-cut, white stone rose to the ceiling, untouched by the water surrounding it.  
“So this is Snow Elf magic,” Serana mused, stepping towards the water’s edge, “impressive.”

Inside the little structure was an elegant basin, carved of the same stone, its brass bowl empty.  
“ _This_ is a wayshrine,” Gelebor stated, “used for meditation and transport when the Chantry was a place of enlightenment.” Tharya examined the shrine and after a second, gestured with her staff to the basin in the middle.  
“What’s that?”  
“Shrines were overseen by Prelates, who would teach the mantras of Auri-El to Initiates. When an Initiate had learned his mantras, he would dip an ewer in the basin and continue to the next wayshrine.”  
“Sounds marvelous,” Serana drawled, voice dry, “how long would they have to lug around a jug of water?” Gelebor’s brow creased.  
“An Initiate would bring the ewer to the Inner Sanctum and empty it to be granted an audience with the Arch-Curate.”  
“And then just dump it out? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

 

“It’s symbolic,” Miraak cut in, the roll of his eyes almost audible, “apparently a simple religious representation proves far too complex for you to comprehend, _vukul_.” Tharya glanced back at him but only shook her head. She comforted herself with the fact that this would all be over soon enough.  
“You’ll have to suck it up. If that’s the only way to move through the Chantry, we’re going to have to use the wayshrines to get to the Inner Sanctum,” she eyed Gelebor to see if her assumption was correct, “that way we can kill the Arch-Curate and get the Bow.” The Snow Elf nodded once. “How many wayshrines will we go through?”  
“Five, in total,” Serana groaned at that, “spread out far across the Chantry. You’ll need the Initiate’s Ewer to travel between them.” Gelebor waded back through the water to the dirt shore, where the white ruins poked out from the brown landscape. He picked up a long, dignified pitcher made of silver and handed it to Miraak. “The Prelate at every shrine will allow you to draw from the well, just as if you’ve been enlightened.”

The Last Dragonborn shared a look with her companions, taking the ewer when Miraak offered it. Her fingers traced the handle appreciatively before she nodded to herself.

"Anything special about this Arch-Curate Vyrthur we should know?" Tharya asked, turning to Gelebor one final time.

"Yes, actually," the Snow Elf replied, "as far as my knowledge goes, he is the only other remaining of our race...and he is my brother."

 

The Last Dragonborn was silent for a moment before she groaned, leaning against her staff.

"Should've seen that one coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> odlihll - there is no dovahzul word for snow elf(elves) so i made one: combination of "od" (snow) and "fahliil" (elf), pronounced ode-leel
> 
> although this pace of writing is great, i may be starting to work soon (and that dreadful summer reading) so we'll see how much it slows down. :) but of course there will still be updates, as i aim to get this done before i start school again in august


	22. Vyrthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya, miraak, and serana make their way through the wayshrines. dissent is stirring far away at the college; lofrek & jorstus are at a loss of what to do about it. the companions arrive at fort dawnguard.

“Dear Archmage: I’m not even sure if this letter will find you, as I know you journeyed south weeks ago to fight the vampires. I hope you are remaining safe and all is going well,” Jorstus unfolded the rest of the letter in his hands, pacing around in front of the crackling fireplace. “As I’m sure you remember, that Dragon Priest you brought back from Solstheim with you—Miraak, is his name?—restored the bluffs that had been taken in the Great Collapse.”

The Nord paused, reading that sentence aloud one more time. His steely gaze turned to the courier sitting beside Lofrek, a wooden bowl of hot soup cupped in his hands. The Breton seemed to wilt under his stare.  
“He restored the bluffs in Winterhold?” Jorstus asked, his voice critical, “how is that possible?”  
“Magic, milord,” the courier guessed, “it’s all anyone in Winterhold talks about now. Word hasn’t spread?”  
“There is little to no business or travelers coming out of Winterhold,” Lofrek snorted, “of course word hasn’t traveled.” He nodded up to his brother. “Keep reading.”

Jorstus and Lofrek hadn’t formally met this Miraak, but they had seen him upon first arriving to Fort Dawnguard. Tharya had not introduced them but as they learned other names, it became obvious who the tall, dark-skinned man with black eyes and unruly hair was. He never left their sister’s side, even letting her embrace him, though he stood there like a rigid obelisk instead of returning the gesture. He called her something in some harsh foreign language, and almost never used her name. They spoke aside to each other in hushed voices always. 

They had first laid eyes on him when he entered Fort Dawnguard, minutes after they arrived, and just before the first snow of the night began to fall. After Tharya healed them and hugged him, he brought from the folds of his robe a bladeless hilt, a diamond shaped red gem that looked dull and lifeless attached. He looked apologetic and angry, and gave her the shards of the blade next, murmuring something in a low, gravelly voice thickened by an accent Jorstus couldn’t quite place. He sounded Nordic, but...there was more to it. More northern, if that was even possible. After that, he showed her two broken ends of a staff, a dragon head carved into one end. With an emphasis only dulled by exhaustion she had offered to hew and carve him a new staff, to reforge the blade. His sister was nothing if not handy with a forge. 

“The people of Winterhold have not forgotten. Just the opposite, it’s been the talk of the town ever since you left. People have been coming to the College to speak with him, seeing if he could raise houses too, and restore the town. We’ve had to send them away, but not before some of them....suggested he become Arch-Mage?” Lofrek’s eyes widened as Jorstus read that line, his older brother looking just as bewildered as he. “I’m afraid to say that some of the novices here at the College have voiced their agreement, and even higher-level mages. They think he will somehow do better than you, but I tried to explain to them he was part of an oppressive cult of mages who served the dragons in the Merethic Era! None of them would listen! I haven’t spoken for either side yet, Arch-Mage, but know that I am on yours. Please return as quickly as you can. Your loyal friend, Onmund.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lofrek stood from the table abruptly, snatching the letter from Jorstus. He skimmed it again, as if what his brother had just read aloud was false. “Tharya single-handedly saved the College from destruction and has done nothing but good for them since!”  
“I-I’m just a courier,” the Breton stammered, standing. “I should get going. Messages to deliver.” He grabbed his knapsack from the floor and scuttled out before either of them could stop him. Lofrek didn’t watch him go but instead groaned, returning the letter to his brother’s open hands, slumping back against the long table. If the College of Winterhold, the place she’d gone to flourish and instead helped flourish, was turning against her, what next? The Companions decide to abandon? The vampires get their hands on Auri-El’s Bow?

 

“You there!” A shudder racked his spine at the thought but this stern voice made him jolt. A woman with auburn hair and three, forest green diagonal lines of paint across her face approached. Her armor looked leathery and ancient, with Nordic symbols carved into the metal plating. A thick fur cloak sat around her shoulders. “Where is the Dragonborn?  She said she would meet us here.” The woman crossed her arms, raising an accusing eyebrow.

“She left,” Lofrek replied, looking around the fort, “she’s getting us the weapon we need.”

“And we are not with her?”

“Well, if you’re here, obviously not.” Her eyes narrowed at him and Lofrek swallowed. There was a bow poking out from below her cloak, curved and daunting. “The Dragonborn is my sister, we arrived last night. You are?”   
“Aela,” the woman huffed, tilting her shoulders to give way to the image of a handful of warriors standing around in their armor and thick fur cloaks, examining the empty fort. “We are the Companions. Surely your sister has spoken of us.”

Lofrek swallowed. So the woman in front of him was not only beautiful, but a warrior, and a  _ Companion? _   
“Of course,” he tried to brush off his awe, “of course. All the time. The Companions.” Aela eyed him carefully.

“Good.”

 

***

“Miraak! What the hell are you doing, you big Atmoran idiot! You’ll get the both of you killed!”  
“ _Vukul_!” He shouted into the darkness, ignoring Tharya’s ranting from the portal behind him.  
“This thing is going to close! Come on!” The Last Dragonborn shouted, standing in the middle of the doorway, half her body enveloped in the portal and the other half stuck in the fourth wayshrine.  
“Serana!” He bellowed, pushing forward into the whipping snow. He felt beyond vulnerable without a staff or a sword to keep him company, and the Bound weapon in his hand was doing little to satisfy his need to hold a physical weapon.  
“I’m here, I’m here!” A deadly spike of ice shot out of the darkness and landed between his feet, and when he peered through the dusk, he saw Serana staggering down the path, clutching the ewer.  
“The pitcher, _vukul_!” Miraak extended his hands for the object but there was a handful of Falmer hot on Serana’s heels, scrambling and jeering after her. 

  
“We need to go!” Tharya called. “The portal’s closing!”

Another ice spike barely missed Serana but clipped the Priest’s leg, sending brief, shooting pain into his knee before it numbed completely. The vampire stumbled over a rock but he pulled her into his grip, more or less dragged her to the wayshrine, and tossed the both of them into Tharya and through the portal.

The first he heard was a low groan from below him, hands pushing at his shoulders and forcing him off, rolling to the side. Snow crunched beneath his weight. Beside him, Tharya propped herself on her elbows.  
“By the Nine,” she groaned, “you’re heavy.” The Last Dragonborn gave his chest a hearty pat and fished her spear from the snow, pulling herself up. She extended a hand to Miraak, and with a guttural sound he grabbed it and got to his feet. With a wave of his hand he thawed the chill in his knee and healed the shallow cut from the tip of the spike, sighing in relief when he could move his leg normally again.  
  
“Uh...we may have a problem.” Serana said from his right. Both he and Tharya turned to question her, but they didn’t need to. The ewer lay half-sunk in the snow, its liquid content spilled into the frost.  
“ _Hi sizaan ni_?” Miraak exclaimed. “We cannot go back through the wayshrines. We do not have that time.”  
“ _We_ have to,” Serana moped, “it’s the only way to fill the ewer again and get into the Inner Sanctum.” Miraak’s black eyes narrowed after a second.  
“I knew we should not have given it to you,” he muttered.  
“Is that so? And just who was going to hold it, you?” Serana placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t see a sword or a staff yet you insisted on fighting.”  
“My magical abilities run far deeper and far stronger than yours ever will, nightcrawler,” he shot back.  
“Well if you’re so qualified, you’ve should’ve fought for it!”  
“For a jug?”  
“An _important_ jug!”

Tharya crouched in the snow, examining the splatter of water while her companions argued behind her. After a second of watching the snow melt away where the water had landed on it, she grabbed the ewer from the frost and set it upright, spreading one hand over the water they’d gathered. Eyes closed to focus, a dull red glow encased her hand, and individual droplets of water began to rise from the snow. Rapidly they combined to create bigger drops, more visible, and then combined like a puzzle into a large, fluid, oscillating puddle suspended in mid-air. Moving steadily and with immense care, she guided the water towards the ewer’s lip, and then closed her hand. The water sloshed into the silver pitcher, not a drop escaping. Behind her, Miraak and Serana had gone silent.

“How did you do that,  _ ahtlahzey? _ ” Miraak asked, watching her stand with the now-filled ewer.

“Sanguine taught me,” she grinned, “in case I ever spilt my ale and was too broke to buy another.” She handed the ewer to Serana as Miraak rolled his eyes. “Don’t drop it again though, alright?” She gestured towards the path before them, letting Serana move ahead while she and Miraak walked shoulder-to-shoulder a ways behind. “You were gonna do that, right?”

“I had the situation under control.” He grit out.

“That’s what I thought. Because you know that spell, right? You could’ve done it?”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

“Okay. Just checking.”

They made their way through the little passage, lined with towering walls of rock on either side. An elegant, white stone archway led them to a smooth bridge. In front of them, a beautiful, sprawling temple arose from the mountain slope.  
“This must be the Inner Sanctum,” Tharya murmured to the Dragon Priest at her side as they approached the temple, eyes fixed on the looming shiny statue of Auri-El in the courtyard. Icicles hung from the statue’s elbows and face, and the Elven deity stared forever through a circular construct held upright in his hands, a sun similar to the one found on the top of each wayshrine in the center. The three of them climbed a staircase that curved upward to meet another, an empty basin standing where the two stairways met. “Empty the ewer. Then we should be able to get in.” Tharya gestured with her staff to a towering door opposite them. Grooves in the stone floor ran from the basin to just in front of the door, taking the shape of the sun symbol that seemed to be repeating itself throughout the temple’s design. The water drained from the basin almost as quickly as it went in, rushing into the little canals and filling the sun. A dim green light emanated from it for a moment before the doors creaked in protest and slowly swung open.

“Talos’s ass.” Tharya jumped away from the Falmer just inside the doors, frozen in a thick layer of ice that showed no signs of melting. “Someone’s been up to some interior redesign.” Further into the spacious chamber, in the center of four pillars were more frozen Falmer, and two chaurus.  
“And I thought the Soul Cairn was creepy,” Serana muttered, giving the frozen creatures a wide berth.

There was an unnatural chill to the air, Miraak noticed. Not the one caused by the atmosphere or seasons, but magic. From the amount of other frozen Falmer, he wasn’t surprised. The temple became more and more enveloped in ice, immensely thick layers of it. With every room they passed through it took more of the ceiling, the walls, even the floor they walked on. It didn’t bother him, but the edge of offensive magic set his nerves on high alert. Tharya swerved closer to him as they came to a chamber almost completely enveloped in ice, a slim opening between two walls of cold. The magical feeling seemed to creep away as the ice became more natural; they were moving deeper into the mountain. Someone had perhaps carved this path to get somewhere, since the majority of the temple remained closed off or ruined.

 

“Divines, no one thought to add a fireplace?” The climb through the ice was suffocating, as the walls closed in around them. Serana kicked at the lopsided door inward and it brought them into a squeezing space where two of the temple’s walls had collapsed against each other. One by one, they ducked through.  
  
“Arch-Curate Vyrthur?” 

A tall, slimmer figure stood in the center of a crowd of frozen Falmer, his back to them. Without a word he moved forward, through the glassy statues, to a throne stationed behind a wall of threatening ice spiking upwards from the floor.  
“Vyrthur!” Tharya repeated, squaring herself and placing her spear tip to the floor. “Gelebor sent us.”  
“Of course he did,” the Snow Elf sneered, his voice incredibly more grating and accusing than his brother’s. “Did he also tell you that you could obtain Auri-El’s Bow? The same lie he feeds to all who wander through these ruins?”  
“I’ve been through a lot of shit, lately, Elf,” Tharya growled, “so get on off your throne and make it easy.”  
“Arrogant Nord,” Vyrthur spat back, slumping into the throne, “you’ve done just as I predicted and brought this...” his gaze shifted to Serana, “lovely little thing to me.”

 

The Dragonborn’s spear shifted outwards, creating a bar between Serana and Vyrthur’s scrutinizing looks. Miraak’s hands lit with flame as he secured his place on the vampire’s opposite side.  
“Which, I’m sorry to inform you, means your minute usefulness has reached its end.” Vyrthur gave a lazy shrug. Tharya narrowed her eyes.  
“I’m the fucking _Dragonborn_ ,” she declared, “I’m _always_ useful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sizaan ni? - you lost it? (could be inferred as "you dropped it?")
> 
> hello hello! i only did some quick editing & translation so there may be a few things missing (dovahzul wise), but i wanted to get this chapter out to you guys. if there is any mistakes/phrases needing translation you see let me know! i'm off to see my cousins 2.5 hours away today so when i get back i'll be able to edit and write more!


	23. Auri-El's Bow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the companions try to help the dawnguard prepare for the upcoming battle. odahviing & others lend their help. tharya has a revealing discussion with Auri-El, and miraak may be able to rid himself of the taint that took his eyes back.

“Alright, everyone listen up.” Athis crossed his arms over his chest after shrugging the light snow off his shoulders. “If we’re going to take on the vampires, we have to work as a team. That means coordinating your movements so you don’t accidentally turn around and hack your brother’s head off.” Some of the Dawnguard recruits turned to murmur to each other. “How many of you have ever fought someone before?” Most hands went up. “Killed someone?” Most hands went down. The Dunmer turned to Farkas, shivering and pulling the fur tighter around his shoulders, and then gestured for Aela to come over.

“The Dragonborn did not tell us we’d be dealing with newbloods,” the huntress seemed disgruntled, eyeing the Dawnguard forces.  
“We're not teachers,” Athis murmured, “we're warriors. She told us we would be fighting.” Farkas perked up at the other's words, dark eyebrows knitting together.  
“Tharya is expecting our help either way,” he put in before Aela could speak again, “whether we fight or teach.” After a moment of both his brother and the huntress staring at him, Farkas crossed his arms under their scrutinizing gaze. “I intend to help her in any way I can.” He stated, backing away from the two. Athis followed Aela’s examining gaze to the group of recruits dressed in the signature brown armor of the Dawnguard. Some of them held axes or chipped swords, some held bows, some shields, while others remained weaponless. 

The Dunmer sighed and faced the recruits, earning their attention again.  
“Those of you with blades and axes will go see him,” Athis gestured to Farkas, who seemed to be the only Companion not dreading the task before them. Sometimes he didn’t know how to feel about Farkas’s dog-like loyalty to the Dragonborn. “Those of you with shields will come to me, and those of you with-”  
“ _Dragon!_ ”

The shout rang through Dayspring Canyon loud and clear, bouncing off the cradle of mountains and skittering across the lake. The word had erupted from Jon Battle-Born, who had been lounging near the fire and sharpening his blade. Every pair of lips held their breath before breaking free, giving way to a mass, unorganized panic outside the fort. The front doors were thrown open and out clambered Isran and Celann, as well as an Orc, another man, and two women on their heels. Lofrek and Jorstus stumbled through the fleeing recruits, eyes trained on the sky. Sure enough, there were two dragons larger than life approaching, silhouetted against the sky. They passed in front of the sun like clouds before circling downwards, moving for the highest tower of Fort Dawnguard.  
“Hold a moment,” Lofrek grabbed his brother, “that’s Thar’s dragon.”  
“What?” Jorstus had already drawn his blade, but Lofrek shot off, dancing between terrified recruits who flailed their weapons carelessly about.  
“That’s my sister’s dragon!” He shouted, latching onto Isran. “She must’ve sent them! Stand down! It’s my sister’s dragon!” The Redguard gave him a bewildered look. “Believe me,” Lofrek begged, “they’re our allies. Tharya must’ve sent them. Stand down.”

After a strained moment, Isran shook him off and slapped the nearest crossbow nose downwards.  
“Lower your arrows!” He roared, pushing at someone’s readied blade. “Sheathe your weapons! Sheathe your weapons!” With widespread hesitation, the Dawnguard lowered their crossbows and swords, but not one returned to its scabbard. Above them, one dragon roared, and Lofrek prayed to each Divine he was right. Without incident the dragons landed on the two lower towers that surrounded the practice yard, and one leaned downwards to examine them all with a scrutinizing eye.  
“You’re...you’re Odahviing, right?” Lofrek was the first to speak, taking a careful step towards the ruby red dragon.  
“ _Geh_.” He said simply.

“I’m Lofrek, I’m Tharya’s twin brother,” he introduced himself, willing his voice not to shake so much. Odahviing stared down his snout at him, before huffing and nodding respectfully. “Did she send you?”  
“I brought your sister to find the _zun,_ the bow she requires to fight the vukul. She asked me to return and aid in your _krif,_ your battle.”  
“Divines,” Lofrek shook his head, a grin growing on his face, “we have dragons?” He turned to Jorstus, standing vigilantly at Isran’s side. “We have dragons!”

The Redguard crossed his arms, as if assessing the two legendary beasts in front of him.  
“Indeed we do,” he nodded to himself, “perhaps the Dragonborn isn’t as much of a milk-drinker as I thought.”

 

* * *

 

_“You have such a skewed misconception of power, Dragonborn. You think because the gods chose you to carry out a prophecy any one of us could’ve done,” he shook his head, “you’re special.”_

_“You, Dragon Priest.” Vyrthur motioned to Miraak. “Surely you don’t count yourself among these...maggots?”_

_“I am a priest to a religion that has been dead for thousands of years. A mage to a cult that fed from the oppression of the weak. I am the First Dragonborn who tried to show the world what power the gods had given me and was silenced by the writhing hands of those who were not interested.” He bumped his fists together and a purple glow looking like a remnant of the Soul Cairn Sky enveloped them both. “People like you, Odlhiil. My race murdered yours to the brink of extinction, once.” He pulled a Bound battleaxe from the air, sliding his hands around the spectral handle. Miraak grinned widely for the first time since leaving Apocrypha, but it was dark and challenging and almost lustful, not for flesh but for...domination. Servitude. Defeat._

_“I am exceedingly amenable to do so a second time.”_

Tharya felt her eyebrow twitch in minor discontent. She willed her hands to stay loose, palms open on her knees to accommodate the spear lying across them. With luck she could forget the battle just for now, and continue to meditate on the spear.

_With a sigh that indicated neither frustration nor exhaustion, Miraak stood. The Bound battleaxe fell from his opened grip and disappeared in a brief smoke upon hitting the floor. With one bloodied hand he reached down to grab the collar of Vyrthur’s armor and began dragging him towards the throne._

_“Miraak!” Tharya called, taking a little step forward. There was something coursing in her veins she didn’t quite understand, something she couldn’t place. Not fear, not fright or terror. But something akin to it. The Dragon Priest didn’t reply. When he climbed the frozen steps to the throne, he reached down and grabbed Vyrthur by the neck instead, yanking him upwards so his back was to the tip of one of the ice spikes._

_“Naan laat rotte, Odlhiil?”_

_Vyrthur floundered and clawed at his hand but Miraak’s grip was unfaltering._

_“I’ll see you in the Void,” the Arch-Curate finally bit out. The Priest looked stunned for a moment before replying:_

_“Yes. You will.”_

_And he dropped Vyrthur, and with a sickening_ **_crack_ ** _of split armor and a_ **_squelch_ ** _of pierced organs the Snow Elf fell backwards onto the spike._

“You are unused to such brutality,” a calm voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and after a heavy sigh Tharya opened her eyes to meet Auri-El’s ghostly form sitting beside her. “You are a Nord—you honor the dead and the defeated.”

“Not all of us,” she muttered, and the deity chuckled quietly.  
“He respects only the dead of a certain kind,” Auri-El stood and migrated towards where Miraak was sitting, away from Tharya at the top of the balcony with his legs dangling over the edge of the stone mezzanine. “And towards the defeated he has been taught to be cruel.” Miraak had no idea of the Elven god’s presence as he tended to his wounds, shrugging his robe off his shoulders to prod at a nasty gash that crossed his stomach. “It is not unusual to find such teachings...jarring, Dragonborn. Especially for someone of your caliber.”

Tharya closed her eyes again, hoping to preserve whatever shreds of tranquility she could before Auri-El spoke again.  
“You have meditated countless times on my weapon, Dragonborn,” the deity turned to her, “what else could you wish to find?”  
“You told me to,” she replied, one eyebrow raised. “You told me Hermaeus Mora would come after us if I didn’t.”  
“A simple way to get you to grow into the spear,” Auri-El waved one slender hand dismissively, “I will protect you from Hermaeus Mora, though as of late he has not interfered with your path. With anyone’s.”  
“Not even a single person on Nirn has had the pleasure of meeting Hermaeus Mora recently?” Tharya drawled, looking at the Elf with skepticism. “What a shame.” Auri-El looked at her strangely, like there were words waiting on his lips and yet he could not bring himself to speak them.

“His eyes,” the god peered down at Miraak, the warm glow of a healing spell enveloping the First Dragonborn’s hand as the skin on his torso knit itself back together, “he believes them incurable. Do you?”

Tharya squeezed her spear and in it slid, pushing herself off the white stone balcony and turning to gaze out across the Forgotten Vale.  
“I don’t know,” she replied truthfully, “but I know he hates it. Why?”

Auri-El didn’t reply for a long moment before he tore his gaze away from the Dragon Priest, examining the towering temple tucked into the mountainside.  
“Let him be the one to use the Bow, when the need arises.” He said with a nod.  
“ _When the need arises?_ ” She echoed. “How am I supposed to know when that is?”  
“You will know, Dragonborn.”

When she turned to confront him, he was gone, and instead Miraak was standing in his place, his eyes fixed on her. He carefully slid his robe back on and as he did so, he moved to stand at her side.  
“What next, _ahtlahzey?_ ” He asked, voice rough but low. His hands were still tinted red from Vyrthur’s blood but he slid his gloves on anyway.  
“What next?” She echoed. “Next we return to the Dawnguard, and then I suppose we fight Harkon.” The Last Dragonborn wrapped both hands around her spear and leaned against it. “I still can’t believe Vyrthur turned out to be a vampire. Didn’t see that one coming.” Miraak grunted his agreement.  “He wrote the Tyranny of the Sun to exact revenge on a god,” she mused, more to herself than anything, “it’s almost sad, in a way.”  
“Vyrthur does not deserve your pity, _ahtlahzey_ ,” Miraak told her in a reminding tone. Immediately her thoughts trailed back to who she was talking to; the one who’d just impaled said Arch-Curate without even the smallest of hesitations. In a last-ditch attempt to save himself, or at least kill all of them, Vyrthur had wrapped himself in powerful magic and exploded, giving way to the ruination of the glacier and the opening to the balcony they were standing on. There was nothing of him left when they climbed from the rubble, except the crimson scarf that had adorned the waist of his ivory armor.

Tharya reached behind her to wriggle Auri-El’s Bow out of its strap on her back, admiring it for a moment before extending it to Miraak.  
“No, _ahtlahzey_ ,” his eyes turned to her, and the sheer blackness of his gaze struck her once again, “I do not think that...appropriate.”  
“Hold it,” she insisted, “when will two Nords like you and me ever hold a holy relic like this again?” He gave her a sideways grin.  
“You, perhaps not, _ahtlahzey_.” She burst into raucous laughter, muttering something along the lines of you big bastard before smiling up at him, shaking the Bow like a treat.  
“Come on. Just hold it.” Cautiously the First Dragonborn reached for the bow’s elegant curve, before sending one glance to Tharya, and closing his hand around it.

 

With a yell he dropped the Bow as if it had burned him, letting it clatter to the ground.  
“ _Los hi unt wah krii zey, ahtlahzey?_ ” He barked, gripping his right hand. Searing pain flooded his nerves and his entire hand began to throb, a wisp of smoke even rising from his dark skin.

 

_Let him be the one to use the Bow, when the need arises._

Tharya was shocked for a second before grabbing for the Priest’s hand, breathing a cool layer of frost over it.

_He believes them incurable._

Miraak growled another curse deep in his throat, white-knuckle grip not easing on his wrist.

_You will know, Dragonborn._

Slowly, steadily, Tharya’s gaze trailed up to Miraak’s. Wetness brimmed his eyes from the surprising pain, showing anger and confusion all at once. 

But, most importantly, showing the last hints of gold receding from his pupils before it was swallowed again by the infinite black. He blinked and the color was gone, but she had no doubt in her mind that it had been there.

_You will know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naan laat rotte, Odlhiil? - any last words, snow elf?  
> Los hi unt wah krii zey - are you trying to kill me?
> 
> again, if you want a visual representation of my miraak, check out @illumancer on tumblr! not gonna repost/use their work but i'll point you to it :) we're getting close to the end people!!


	24. Harkon's Demise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we get our first, and only, look at the opposing side as harkon views his situation.

Harkon knew, just sitting at the window and listening to the rain bombard the castle, he knew. They would not get the Bow. But they would fight until the last vampire, the last fanged terror. They would fight until the dawn and beyond, if they had to. With a low sigh he turned away from the window and let the curtain fall closed. He turned to the woman standing a couple yards away, her hands clasped tightly behind her.

“What are you telling me, Lilian?” Harkon demanded. His voice was firm but hoarse, quiet. 

“The Dawnguard already has the Bow,” Lilian replied, equally as hushed, looking nervous. “Our scouts saw them leaving the temple with it just before our envoy arrived.”

“And the ones I sent to claim it?”

“Dead. There’s a Snow Elf there who guards the shrines,” Lilian’s lip curled in disgust.

With a drawn-out sigh Harkon stood from his chair, wrapping his fingers around the goblet in his grip and meandering towards the window. The moon was nearly full tonight. Tomorrow it would grow closer and the night after it would be full, and then there would be no moon at all. He had hoped the next day would dawn without a sun, and they could celebrate the destruction of their greatest annoyance on Nirn.

“Have the scouts returned?” He queried. Lilian nodded.

“Yes, my lord.” 

Harkon turned on his heel, a disdainful look in his yellow, bloodshot eyes.

“And who told them to do that?” He cocked his head ever so slightly to the side.

“I-I did,” Lilian replied as Harkon advanced. 

“You did not send them after the Bow?” He gave a little shrug.

“After what happened to our warriors...I thought they should be here, preparing for battle.”

“Battle?”

“W-with the Dawnguard, my lord.”

Harkon traced a long nail against the younger woman’s cheek. She was beautiful, dark-skinned, a Redguard if he remembered correctly, with pale yellow eyes and short hair. Meek but capable with whatever those curved swords were called.

 

“It was a simple task, Liliana, darling,” he cooed, voice full of false sympathy and regret, “to retrieve the Bow before the Dawnguard did.”

“My lord,” Liliana bowed her head as his fingers fell to trace her neck, “I swear to you, I will-“

“You will swear nothing.” He frowned. “You have failed me in the simplest task I could’ve given.” Lightly, his hand fixed around her throat, and he felt her swallow against his palm. The vampire lord opened his mouth and pressed it to the Redguard’s, for a moment lingering there before drawing back, lips parted. Trailing him was a spectral, wispy tail of pure red. A soul. A vampire’s soul: composed of many other beings, made up of many other lifetimes.

“You lived a good life, Liliana, darling,” he purred, watching as her skin turned ashy grey, then leathery and old, spots appearing on her skin, her lips wrinkling, fangs going dull. “A good, long life.” She crumbled into dust in his hand, and just before she did Harkon inhaled slowly and deeply and the soul entered his nostrils. A good, long life indeed. Hers was perhaps the longest yet he had taken, and it was almost as if he could  _ feel  _ the years being added to his lifespan. He shook his hand and dust fell off it, puffing into small clouds when he brushed off his sleeve. Harkon gave one lazy look to the ash pile at his feet, a thin column of smoke rising from it.

 

“I regret it has to end this way.”


	25. Interlude III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya and miraak relish their last night before their biggest battle together since apocrypha; miraak is looking to resolve some loose ends, but tharya has no interest in dredging up old wounds.

“Hmm...ran and they cowered...fought, and died...hmm, hmmm, issued their cries...”

 

Miraak could follow the faint humming across the rotunda and towards the mess hall, to where Tharya was sitting on the bench beside the long banquet table. A mead bottle lay on the table near her arm and another clasped between her fingers, uncorked.  
“We need saviors to free us...Alduin’s rage...hmm, hmm...” She was leaning against the tabletop and held her chin in her free hand, singing quietly to herself as the fire crackled dutifully not far off. He paused at the huge archway that opened into the mess, before circling her just enough to enter her peripheral vision.

“Oh,” she sat up a little, “sorry. I didn’t know you were there or I would’ve—would’ve stopped my terrible singing.” She chuckled, gesturing to the open bench beside her.

“It’s soothing,” he replied honestly, ignoring the quizzical look she gave him as he sat. He had come here for a reason. Upon waking to see her half of the bed empty he’d gotten dressed and ghosted downstairs, without ever knowing entirely why, or why he was going after her. But he knew he must. He could not ignore the eating, aching need in his chest that told him he had to go to her. It had been gnawing on him for far too long, and whatever her reservations, he needed her desperately to listen.

" _Ahtlahzey_ ,” he began, sitting in front of her, one leg on either side of the bench, “we must talk about Apocrypha.”

He watched her groan and roll her eyes—she knew exactly where this was going. 

“Not interested.” She muttered.

“ _ Ahtlahzey _ , we must. We cannot allow such a thing to-“

“I  _ said  _ I’m not. Interested. Miraak.” She gave him a pointed glare.

“Tharya,” the Dragon Priest said in a soft voice, but firm, “even if you do not speak I need to. I  _ must. _ ” He floundered for a second. “My conscious obliges me to do so.”

The Last Dragonborn looked surprised for a moment—Miraak had always been an elegant and precise speaker, but...those words held a more human side of him that she not been able to see before. He was no longer First Dragonborn, First Mage, Dragon Priest, the Betrayer, Lord of Apocrypha. He was simply...Miraak. A man. A man who’d been through more than she could imagine in a single, unnaturally long lifetime of torture and despair.

Tharya gave him the smallest of nods.

  
He felt an immense wave of relief wash over him, followed just as rapidly by a tsunami of terror, of tension, of...fear. She had agreed to speak, and it had taken less pressing than he first imagined. Now it was time to tell her what he came to say, but he was feeling his confidence trickle away under her steely gaze. Miraak found himself lost in the clear lakes of her eyes, watching the orange of the flames reflect against her features. She was dressed sparingly, in the cloth binding that he presumed bound her breasts beneath her armor and thin cotton pants that hugged her hips. 

“I did not expect for you to save me,  _ ahtlahzey _ ,” he said suddenly, his eyes focusing absentmindedly on her collarbones. “When you came to Solstheim...I knew you were here. I could feel you. I could feel your power,” at long last he met her gaze, “your sympathy.” She was first to tear away from him, turning fully with her back to the table and leaning against it, peering into the fire. “I was...I was at a loss of what to do. Being offered freedom, from the one I had set out to kill.” Tharya spared him a glance, looking mildly uncomfortable, but she never looked away.

“You know, I was planning to leave myself in Apocrypha. After I rescued you.”

“ _ What?” _

“I was going to read a Black Book, give myself up...” The fire reflected against the tears welling under her lashes. “I had slain Alduin.” Strong shoulders gave a bitter shrug. “I would save the First Dragonborn, or let him--let him kill me.” She swallowed. “I had nothing left.”   
“ _ Ahtlahzey _ ,” he found his voice speaking before he even thought of it, fingers flexing as the urge to reach out to her engulfed them.

“You came at a very...dark time,” she sniffed and rolled her shoulders back, straightening out, “but that doesn’t matter. You’re here now, aren’t you? We’re both alive and safe and tomorrow we’re going to kill some vampires.”

“Tharya,” he said gently, giving her a sympathetic look that said he wasn’t finished with the conversation as she seemed to be, “speak to me.”

When she reached for the mead bottle again he pushed it down the table.

“I was going to leave myself in your stead,” she exclaimed, voice wobbling uncertainly, “but when I saw the way you...I don’t know, you seemed to  _ crave _ freedom and you seemed to  _ want _ someone to share it with. Even if all you did was treat me like shit,” her fingernails dug deep into her tricep as she crossed her arms, “it was your way of coping. I understood that, that’s why I never argued with you.” After a moment of consideration, he reached for her hands, unraveling them from her arms and encasing them in his own. She had a callous on the ridge of her right palm from holding her staff, but her left was smoother from casting spells. The Last Dragonborn warily looked up at him.

“And then...what happened to us, I...I...I couldn’t linger on it, Miraak, I couldn’t weigh myself down with that kind of burden. It’s exhausting,” she added, “I don’t have that kind of strength.”

He had never seen such vulnerability from her, and perhaps that was why he found himself so incredibly put off by her behavior. From the moment she dragged him out of Apocrypha she was always there, whether he noticed—or cared—or not. She always helped him, even when he pushed her away and called her a pretender and a weakling. She never once complained to others about him but instead always told him directly how much of an ass he was being. She hid nothing from him. She was his crutch for days, weeks even, as he reacquainted himself with the world like a newborn. And he had taken it all for granted. He took her work and her life for granted, the incredible amount of trust she instilled him, her perseverance and the troubles she endured for the good of the world. 

Once he told her that her devotion to the common people would make her weak, a puppet to serve their will. Now he realized she drew strength from the knowledge that someone was looking out for them; even if that someone was her.

“ _Ahtlahzey_ ,” he spoke softly, situating himself at her side, “I am...sorry.” His mouth had nearly forgotten how to form such a word. It felt awkward and foreign on his tongue.

“When I was young, people always told me I shouldn’t bother ruining my hands with a sword. Or that I should talk more instead of learning spells. That I shouldn’t wreck the pretty dresses my mother bought me by trying to catch fish in the stream. But I _made_ myself,” her hands tried to curl into fists inside his, “I made myself into my own person. I cast those damn spells and I trained with a sword and I ruined those stupid dresses trying to catch fish in the stream.” He knew exactly what she was getting at, exactly what she was trying and failing to say. She had never used her gender as an excuse and he gathered, from her stories, it had rarely been used to doubt her skill. But now, to have it abused so blatantly, to be used and tossed about like an inferior being...

 

His blood boiled at the thought.

“ _ Dii fil _ ,” he shook his head, letting her take one hand away to wipe at her eyes before closing her fingers in his own again. A wave of anger hit him, flooding his veins and drowning his delicate thoughts for a moment. It was not anger towards her but rather for himself. He had no right to grow close to her, not in this capacity. Especially not after what he’d let Hermaeus Mora do to them, what Hermaeus Mora had  _ done to her _ . What he had done to her. She spoke little of it after their second escape from Apocrypha but he knew it was there, lingering in her mind. How couldn’t it be? 

“I don’t want you to apologize,” she inhaled, her breath shaken and broken up as it hitched in her throat, “neither of us had control.”

“And yet I must,” he insisted, “I cannot...I  _ will not _ allow it to remain this way between us.”

His own words surprised him. When had there ever been an “us”? It had fallen from her lips before, surely, but never his. He had never considered their situation “us”, and yet...it felt right.

“That’s why I didn’t want your apologies,” she sobbed, “I didn’t even want to think about it. I wanted to keep moving, keep going, just get on to the next thing and hopefully forget about it. But you wouldn’t. You kept apologizing and I...I was so  _ finished _ with it. I’d already put it out of my head.”

Miraak reached up after a moment of hesitation, fitting his palms carefully to her cheeks to thumb her tears away.

“I must apologize, Tharya,” he tried to ease her discomfort by keeping his voice gentle, “I appreciate that you have not expected it of me, but I would like you to accept it.”

She swallowed before replying.

“Apology accepted.” Tharya nodded to him, shifting her weight. She’d never seen him like this before, so wildly set on one thing, so immensely devoted and yet...caring.

“What I did to you was unacceptable,” he watched her mouth open to protest, “ _ ni los fin vahzen. _ What Hermaeus Mora did was undeserved—morbid. I regret that my torture ever had to be endured by another. By you.” He ran his hands up her arms to squeeze her biceps, rubbing his thumbs comfortingly into her tense shoulders.

“Come, _dii fil_.” He sighed, finding a way to put his arms around her without igniting her insecurities further. He could feel the uneven rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed against him, trying to reign herself in. She felt unbelievably small in his arms. Smaller than he ever would’ve guessed her to feel, from the presence she commanded by merely standing at his side. “ _Hi los tahriik_. You are safe.” This time, he had confidence in those words. This time, it didn’t ring like a lie in his ears. “I will do anything to protect us, _dii fil_ ,” he murmured, pressing their foreheads together, listening to her cry, “trust in me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahtlahzey - arch-mage  
> dii fil - my star  
> ni los fin vahzen - it is the truth


	26. a/n 3: THE LAST

is this a chapter post? no. but this is IMPORTANT

 

1\. you know how in movies, the two main characters run towards each other, someone jumps into the other's arms & wraps their legs around them, and they KISS while the camera does a cool 360 around them? yeah, that.

2\. the song[ HAPPIER by Bastille & Marshmello](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RE87rQkXdNw). any part will do, but the specific piece i have in mind is from 2:25 to 2:44

 

now, definitely DON'T imagine our problematic favs, Miraak & Tharya, carrying through on Number 1. Tharya runs up the bridge to Castle Volkihar to meet her mans.jJump sequence. leg wrapping sequence. Miraak-catching-her sequence. and definitely DON'T think of them KISSING while in this position.

 

and, while you're at it, definitely don't waste your time on imagining this as a movie, and don't even bother thinking of that section of Happier playing while the camera does its 360.

 

*for added comic relief, think of a cut to serana who only groans and rolls her eyes, saying "about damn time".

 

next chapter should be up SOON i promise! it's a tough one bc lots of action


	27. Sneak Peek!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO, i know it may not seem like it but tharya is a relatively new character--for years upon years i had a "placeholder dragonborn" as i liked to call her; i wasn't particularly happy with her but i didn't have the time to come up with an LDB i really, really liked, or put tons of thought into. recently, i ditched my placeholder when i discovered tharya. because of that, there are some NEW CHANGES coming!! i'm having some difficulty deciding what piece will be next, but there WILL be a work after this one! (i will make a series) indecision is a tough thing, people. but for now, enjoy this sneak peek! final chapters & battle scenes are tough for me to write so please bare with me!

Miraak’s shouting faded from her ears, soon replaced by a dull, consistent ringing, like a church bell that could only produce one note. The searing pain in her hands and forearms slowly drifted away, and she felt her eyes flutter closed.

 

So, this was it. The end.   
  
“No, nothing nearly so dramatic, Dragonborn.” A chuckle from her left made her jolt awake, sitting up from the...sand? It was powdery and fine, slipping through her fingers when she tried to clench a fist around it. In disbelief, Tharya looked down. Her hands were...they were healed. The flesh of her fingers and palms and knuckles was intact, with no bone protruding, no scorch marks, no dead, black skin around it. They were normal again, if a bit cleaner than before. Warily her gaze trailed up to the presence beside her. She’d felt it before, not many times but often enough to recognize it. Or at least retain it, store it away in the back of her mind for whatever purpose.   
“Talos?”

 

The warrior-god was lounging in the sand beside her, leaning forward with his arms draped over his knees. A sword and winged helmet lay between his sandaled feet. If anything, he was relatively true to the statues that dotted Skyrim, what few of them remained in secluded, hidden places. The Thalmor had toppled or destroyed most of them in their manhunt for secret worshipers. The Divine was tall and well built, bulky, similar to Miraak, in a way.   
“It’s the Atmoran blood.” He gave her a grin. His features were proud but hard, softening only when he smiled at her. “So, this is the last to carry my blood.” She blinked at him.  _ His  _ blood? Or the dragonblood? “Auri-El and I have been watching you closely, but just before you got the castle, your immediate future became very clear to us.”

An odd throbbing picked up in her wrists and when the Last Dragonborn looked down, her skin was splitting, cracking like burst fabric seams, agony blossoming as blood surfaced and immediately dried. Her fingers began to tremble vigorously, and suddenly her arms seemed too weak to hold the weight of her burnt hands. As if they’d just...fall off.   
  
“You were meant to come into possession of a divine weapon, but you came into the wrong one.” The hero-god didn’t seem to notice her hands, and if he did, said nothing about it. “Miraak, the Dragon Priest. He blessed your staff, and that should’ve made it holy. But it only half-worked, as I’m sure you know by now. He thinks the blessing went awry but it’s because the spear wasn’t made for you. That...”   
“Changed things.” Tharya offered, unable to place her hands in her lap but unable to hold them in the air much longer. Talos nodded. He then shifted towards her, gently placing his much bigger palms below her shaking ones. Examining hazel eyes drifted over her burnt skin.   
“We saw this coming,” he said almost woefully, “I wanted to stop it but this was the only way for you to get the correct relic. I apologize,” Talos’s hands slipped away, replaced by a soothing sensation crawling across her skin and a new weight encompassing her forearms. “These are what you were meant to come into possession of.”

 

Warily, she looked down.


	28. The Dawnguard (Part I of the End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i figured instead of making it one huge chapter, i should get some stuff out to you guys. so the end will be posted piece by piece, all chapters varying in length. here's the first: relatively short to start things off, but more to come soon! also, pfft, i'm probably keeping tharya's spear around, so jk friends
> 
> edit: i changed around tharya's armor from the original post, so if there's any inconsistency (i.e., "robe" instead of "armor" or "mail") let me know!

“I need to get rid of this armor.” Tharya muttered to herself, placing Boethiah’s ebony mail beside her on the bed.  
“ _Druv los daar_ , _ahtlahzey_?” A low, muffled voice from behind her asked. The Last Dragonborn half-twisted to examine where the First lay, face buried in a pillow, his bronze skin dull in the lack of torchlight. Even half-asleep he commanded some sort of power, as if his being alone seemed to take up half the room. His magical aura emanated into every free nook and cranny it could; she could feel it, only because that aura had once been turned against her, suffocating, crushing, overpowering. In Apocrypha. As if her feet were weighed down with steel ingots.

“This armor belongs to Boethiah,” she took a look at the ebony mail beside her, “good armor, but...tainted. Evil. I can feel it.” She carefully omitted the part where she felt filthy every time she put it on. “I should’ve never left my robes.” Miraak was silent. Truly, she shouldn’t be complaining about the Deadra, not to him, of all people. But a month or two ago he probably would’ve told her as much, and scoffed at her like a child. She supposed this was an improvement, silence instead of insult.

The Last Dragonborn shuffled out of bed and towards the rickety table across the room. On it were the gleaming shards of her broken blade, placed on top of a robe draped over the wood like a tablecloth. At one far corner lay the hilt, and opposite it, the pointed edge.  
“There is no use in keeping a broken blade, _ahtlahzey_.” Miraak said from behind, as if he knew exactly when her fingers lifted a piece of the sword to examine it. She snorted.  
“I’ll take that as an apology for breaking it,” Tharya shifted the blade shard carefully on her fingertips before setting it down again, “besides, this sword is important to me. Broken or not, my father will want to have it back.” She lingered near the table, fingers tracing over the dull metal, until an aggressive knocking at the door pushed her back into reality.  
“Dragonborn! You in there?” Tharya glanced to Miraak as he sat up in bed, giving the littlest of shrugs. She went to the door and opened it to find a Breton staring back at her, a crossbow over her back and a quiver of bolts at her hip. “Oh, it’s you. There’s something waiting for you downstairs.”

“What?”  
“Best to just show you, Dragonborn. Come on.” Without a moment’s hesitation the Breton led her down the spiral staircase and into the rotunda, where a handful of people were crowded around an ordinary looking chest.

“Package came for you not five minutes ago, Dragonborn. Courier said you’d know who sent it when you opened it. Move aside!” The Breton cleared the onlookers to let Tharya through but they just converged again as she knelt to open the chest. Inside there was a blanket meticulously but loosely wrapped around the contents, and a folded note resting on top.

 

  
_Dragonborn,_

_This will serve you well. Better than your old armor, anyway._

_T_

 

“T?” She echoed, reading the words again. “I have no idea who that is.” After a moment of contemplation she set the paper down and threw the blanket back, clear eyes widening in disbelief.

“This...these are my College robes." Tharya lifted the fabric from the chest. "I left these in Whiterun."  
“Arkay says Talos says you wore them for so long, why forsake them now?” A voice leaned over her shoulder, examining the mail with her. “They never seemed to fail you.”  
“Well,” she shrugged lightly, “he’s right. But this chainmail wasn't with it." It was identical to the underset of black chainmail in Boethiah’s armor, yet there was no evil magic reeking from it.  
“Talos says that’s a little improvement of his own.” The Last Dragonborn set the mail down and looked up at the Imperial.  
“Wait, wait. Are you telling me...” she looked at the note. _This will serve you well. T._ “Talos sent this?”  
“That would be my guess, Dragonborn.”  
“Who are you again?”  
“Florentius Bae-”

“All of you. Stop standing around,” Isran barked suddenly, making them all jump, “recruits, to the training yard. Pack your gear. Dragonborn—that armor is yours?” The Redguard made a vague gesture for the robes. Miraak paused under the stone archway, fully dressed, half-expecting Isran to address him. “Put it on. You,” he turned to Jorstus and Lofrek, standing not far off to the side in steel and studded armor, “gather the men. Tell the...the dragons we move soon.”  
Miraak turned to Isran as he passed, a quizzical look on his face, but the man paid him no mind.  
“What is it?” Tharya asked, walking over to him with her armor in her arms. He looked uneasy for a moment before speaking.  
“Dress, _ahtlahzey_ , and come outside.” Without another word the Dragon Priest stalked towards the huge wooden doors.

The chain mail felt almost _soft_ when she put it on, weighing comfortably on her body. It felt the same as Boethiah’s mail, except...less like a thick layer of mud caking her body. The fabric was silkier than she remembered, but no less durable. A pair of Nordic-carved steel boots had been in the chest as well, though strangely, no bracers. She pushed it aside--if this was a gift from Talos, as the Imperial downstairs had said, she was already beyond grateful. 

  
Miraak was waiting quietly in the training yard, his arms folded and dark violet robes fluttering the chilly breeze. He looked upwards as the first few errant snowflakes began to fall from the sky, melting into his hair and skin.  
“You wanted to talk to me?” Tharya prompted as she approached. Miraak didn’t reply, but once she stood shoulder to shoulder with him he went forward, arms falling to his sides. He squared himself, and a thunderous Shout erupted from the depths of his chest, one she didn’t recognize:

 

**_Dur...neh viir!_ **

 

Nirn itself seemed to tremble as the great crack of power echoed throughout Dayspring Canyon. It made Tharya plant her feet for purchase, but just as quickly as they came, the tremors stopped. Was Miraak’s Thu’um really so powerful? An eerie stillness covered the canyon like a thick, unbreathable blanket, and it was only broken by a bone-rattling roar.

“Miraak!” Tharya bounded forward just as a winged figure crested the mountain range, but stopped when Miraak made no move to defend himself. Instead, he only half-turned to her, extending one gloved hand.  
“Patience, _dii fil_.” He said simply. With a wary look Tharya took his hand and fell in beside him. The dragon seemed to be skeletal at first, yet still in flight. Gradually his skin and scales returned, piece by piece, as if the skies of Tamriel were putting him back together. This was different from the renewal of life she’d seen with Alduin. It was like...Miraak’s Shout had brought him here, and was rebuilding him.

The dragon that landed before them was pale in color, with a greenish tinge. Compared to Odahviing’s colorful body, he looked almost sickly. Four great horns protruded from his head, two on each side, curved inwards and down.  
“ _Qahnaarin_ ,” he rumbled, bowing his head towards Miraak. “ _Hi lost bel dovah_.”  
“As I said I would,” the Dragon Priest replied. He let go of Tharya’s hand to make a vague gesture to her entire person. “ _Daar los fin Laat Dovahkiin_ , _kriid do Alduin_. Slayer of the World-Eater.”

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” the dragon nodded now to Tharya, his scaley features contorting as best they could into confusion. “The world has never seen an age birth two of the dragonblood,” he made a noise deep in his throat, “but if Bormahu saw fit to send _ziin_ , the both of you, I will not question.”

Miraak could feel Tharya’s piercing gaze on him but did not budge nor move to answer her unspoken question. No, Durnehviir did not know his name, nor would he learn it; there was no need to endanger their alliance.  
“Hmm, how free the air is! At long last I have returned,” the dragon inhaled slowly before setting his gaze on Miraak again, “you have set me free, _Qahnaarin_ , for the time being. Yet you expect something in return. That is the pattern of your kind, is it not?”  
“Your aid, when the battle comes, is all I require.” The Priest replied.  
“Ah, _grah!_ You intend to fight with Durnehviir at your side, _Qahnaarin_ , yes? My claws have rended the flesh from many a foe but never once have I been felled in the field of battle. You have chosen wisely, _Qahnaarin_.” 

“ _Zu’u mindok_. _Dreh ni funt zey_.”  
“Only speak my name when you will, _Qahnaarin_ , and I shall come, as I have done here.” Without another word Durnehviir lifted himself from the ground. Powerful wings returned him to the skies, where he roared to his heart’s content, the sound echoing across the lake.

 

“He does not know who you are, _Grutiik_ ,” Odahviing huffed from behind, up on his tower, “ _Qahnaarin._ Vanquisher. You did not tell him.”

“He offered a deal to me in the Soul Cairn,” was the First Dragonborn’s only defense, “it would’ve been foolish not to take it.”  
“And the other dragon?” Tharya aimed the question at Odahviing.  
“Kestyoldiiv. We have come to serve you, _Dovahkiin_ ,” Odahviing’s voice seemed taut. “Your ambitions are ours. Our aid is yours.”  
“Thank you, Odahviing.” She gave him a strained smile, glancing towards Miraak’s retreating figure. “I’m sure a couple of dragons on our side couldn’t hurt.”

 

“Dragonborn,” Isran droned as they entered. Though the title referred to both herself and the Dragon Priest his unimpressed gaze seemed fixed on Tharya. “How kind of you to join us.” Lofrek migrated towards his sister once she joined the crowd of men and women outfitted in the signature dark brown Dawnguard armor, all clustered around Isran.  
“I have a letter to show you later,” her twin murmured, “after we clean up this mess.”  
“Dawnguard!” Isran bellowed to silence the minute chatter. Tharya surveyed the room with a critical eye.  
“All our forces fit into one room with space to spare,” she shook her head, leaning against her spear. “Let’s hope Isran’s speech can fill it up.”  
“For far too long we’ve allowed these vampires, the filthy creatures they are, to poison the night and kill our people!” Beside Miraak, Serana made herself known with a low groan. “Now we have finally obtained the means to strike back, and make it hurt!”

Celann scurried down the stairs and across the rotunda, holding a familiar golden, beaming bow in his hands.  
“Now, we have Auri-El’s Bow.” Isran grinned, closing a calloused hand around the bow and holding it for the entire Dawnguard to see.  
“You know who to thank for that,” Tharya said just above a whisper, enough to make a few heads turn.  
“The gods themselves have favored us and we must answer. With. Action!” Isran roared, but was briefly drowned out by the answering hoots and hollers that bounced off the fort’s stone walls. “The time has come to put an end to Harkon and his unholy prophecy!” More cheering, more voices rising to meet the call. “The time has come to destroy those wretched abominations that corrupt our world!” The caliber of voices rose to deafening. Tharya didn’t think it possible to get so much noise from a group of less than an a hundred people. “The time has come, Dawnguard! This is our fight! Our fight!”

 

A moment of silence settled over the group. Isran handed the Bow back to Celann in favor of taking his finely crafted warhammer into his hands, thrusting its silver head into the air.  
“ _This is the time of the Dawnguard!_ ”

 

“Wow,” Tharya said, only slightly impressed, “rousing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lol should i finally make miraak and tharya kiss in the very last chapter?  
> Druv los daar, ahtlahzey - why is that, archmage?  
> dii fil - my star  
> Hi lost bel dovah - you have summoned me  
> Daar los fin Laat Dovahkiin, kriid do Alduin - this is the last dragonborn, slayer/killer of alduin  
> qahnaarin - vanquisher; title gifted to Miraak by Durnehviir in the soul cairn  
> bormahu - dragon name for akatosh  
> grah - battle  
> Zu’u mindok. Dreh ni funt zey - i know. do not fail me  
> grutiik - betrayer (in my canon, faal Grutiik--the Betrayer--is what the dragons call miraak)


	29. The Battle (Part II of the End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all...this chapter took so long...battle scenes kill me...and i'm bad at describing magic...please forgive me (i may come back to edit the shalidor's mirror scene, i'm not entirely happy with it. dovahzul translations at the end!

Castle Volkihar sat grimly in its rocky cradle above the lake which surrounded it, half-concealed by a low lying fog. Its towers reached just high enough to touch the rim of the first moon.  
“This is the place?” Lofrek whispered, tapping his sister’s shoulder. The Last Dragonborn half-twisted from her seat to examine the castle’s silhouetted figure, and gave a slow nod before going back to rowing.  
“This is the place. Serana, put out the light.” Without a sound the vampire leaned towards Jorstus and pressed the flickering candle flame between two fingers, submerging the five of them in darkness. A few seconds later, the boats around them did the same, leaving them all in the watery abyss of night.  
“We have the Bow?” Tharya asked in a hushed voice. Miraak reached to the bottom of the boat and shifted the sheet they’d stolen off a clothesline. Wrapped in it was Auri-El’s Bow, gleaming softly and serenely back at them. “Good. Are you ready to use it?” She looked at him this time, disturbed that she couldn’t find his eyes in the dark. Miraak nodded, the moonlight shifting on his hair.

 

The rickety dock leading to Castle Volkihar was half-submerged in water and half rotting wood, earning itself a doubtful look and a wide berth. Tharya was first to jump into the shallow water, Jorstus and Miraak soon after, and together they pushed the boat onto the cold soil shore. On either side of them, boats filled with mixed Dawnguard and Companion forces appeared in the moonlight.  
“Divines, I’ll never know how Celann got those trolls over here.” Tharya watched as a couple recruits tried to coax a beast out of one of the larger boats.  
“Tharya,” a gentle voice called from the darkness, making her turn. Farkas approached with open arms, a slow grin building on his face. “Long time no see.” They embraced briefly before Isran sloshed up to the shore, his face set with rock-hard determination.  
“The battlefield is no place for hugging,” the Redguard grunted. His dark eyes scanned upwards to the castle before he gestured for them to follow him into the wide shadow of a broken down tower. It might’ve been a watchtower once, or maybe even a lighthouse; its architecture was more modern than the castle, and it stood at the water’s edge. 

 

“This is our only chance to defeat Harkon,” Isran grunted once Tharya and Farkas were standing with him. “You’re sure that priest of yours can handle the Bow?”  
“I’ve never trusted more in someone’s aim,” the Last Dragonborn nodded. “He’ll do what he needs to do no matter what. If we time this right, we can lure them all outside, and when dawn hits they’ll be easy pickings.” Tharya went on. It was a shaky plan at best; timing didn’t seem to be anyone’s strong suit here. “And remember that the fishermen will need their boats back in one piece.” Her clear gaze fell across the water to where the hands of darkness concealed the little fishing town, Sea Point, they had borrowed the boats from. _Borrowed_ was a loose term; no one was awake at such an hour, and so she’d demanded at least ten septims from everyone and left the compensation wrapped in a cape with a note stuck to it. Just in case.  
“Good. And you, the Companions,” he squared Farkas with his gaze, “all your people are prepared?”  
“The moon is full,” Farkas nodded, as if that explained everything.  
“You can’t be serious?”

Both men turned with surprise to the Dragonborn, who looked just as stunned as they did.  
“I mean--you’re all going to transform?”  
“Whoever can.” Isran’s shock slowly melted away and was replaced by understanding. He rocked back onto his heels.  
“You’re werewolves,” he said slowly, “aren’t you.”  
“Got a problem?”

The leader of the Dawnguard looked between them before shaking his head.  
“Figure it out. I have preparations to make.”

 

Seeing Isran leave, Miraak started towards them, but Tharya waved him away.  
“You can’t all be planning to change,” she shook her head, taking Farkas’s arm. “I thought you said you wanted to be cured.”  
“I’m stronger in my wolf form,” Farkas said, though there was a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.  
“No, no, you’re not. Why don’t you trust your sword arm? You’re one of the best fighters I’ve seen.” Tharya squeezed his shoulder. “I can’t make you do anything. I’m sure Aela will switch no matter what. But you should have faith in yourself. Once this is all done I’m going to cure myself--you should come with me.”  
“You are?” Farkas blinked down at her. Tharya had hardly registered what she’d said until after she said it. She had no plans or intentions to cure herself so soon. She hadn’t even thought about it. The last time her lycanthropy had crossed her mind was when they had been on the road to find Dexion.  
“I...I’m thinking about it,” her hand fell away from the man’s shoulder and she took a hesitant step back, “eventually.” Farkas gave her a strange look before promising to talk to the others and trudging off.  
  
“What was that, _ahtlahzey?_ ”

The smell of old parchment and worn leather mixed with the electrifying tingle of magic overtook her senses as Miraak drew closer. The steady, reassuring beat of his heart filled her ears. Always his heartbeat was in the back of her mind, echoing in their silent moments. A wave of sudden calm crashed over her as Miraak took his place by her shoulder. He exhaled lowly, nearly silent to her ears.  
“The Circle; the top dogs in the Companions.” Her lips twisted into a frown. “That was a terrible analogy. But they all want to change tonight, to fight the vampires.” Miraak was silent for a moment. His heartbeat was slow, gentle almost. Calm before the bloodbath.  
“A metaphor,” he half-turned to her, “a terrible metaphor.” Tharya rolled her eyes.  
“They are _vuhiik_ .” Her Dovahzul sent a chill to his spine. “Like me. That doesn’t bother you? Last I remember you weren’t particularly thrilled.” The Dragon Priest’s dark eyes shifted downwards to her. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t have the words. Or the will. “Yeah, I know. You’re not a big supporter of my _Daedric taint_. Though it’s saved your ass more times than you even know.”

His breathing tightened; a small difference in the regular pattern but his heart told all. She had struck a nerve, with or without trying. He sucked in a tense breath. 

“Come on,” she hit his arm in a lame apology, “we won’t do any use sulking.”

 

The first cry went up just as the last troll was convinced off the boat, and the sound of splitting rock broke the night’s stillness.  
“ _Gargoyle!_ ”

Miraak clapped his hands together with a thunderous sound and gauntlets of ice materialized on his forearms, crawling up his arms to his shoulders. Tharya gave her spear a twirl, a palmful of lightning sparking to life in her hand. He looked closer to see it was laced with strings of fire and ice, framed by lightning, all surrounded by the aura of a draining spell. Elemental magic. She chose well. As they joined the Dawnguard forces standing near the bridge, another gargoyle broke free of its stone skin, like a grotesque hatchling breaking its egg.  
“I guess it’s time,” Tharya muttered. She extended her arm to Miraak. “ _Krif voth ahkrin_.”

He clasped Tharya’s forearm, minor surprise trickling over his features at her Dovahzul.

" _Krif voth ahkrin_ ," he repeated back to her.

 

The pair of gargoyles snarled and clawed their way down the bridge at top speed, and with a rallying cry Isran brought the combined forces to surge forward against them. The doors of Castle Volkihar groaned open and out poured a handful of vampires, eyes glowing menacingly in the night.  
“Call your dragon!”

Miraak was unsure of how the yell came from but Tharya had left his side. He ducked to avoid a hand of hooked talons sweeping through the air for him, throwing a frozen, punishing fist into the gargoyle’s midriff. It shrieked at him but was cut off by an icy blade plunging through its chest, before being retracted and swung precisely for its neck. 

 

**_Dur...neh viir!_ **

 

His Shout split the few lone snowflakes dotting the sky but barely halted the tumult of the battle. Just seconds after, Tharya’s Thu’um echoed his across the bridge, cutting a path of flame towards a vampire, soon joined by her spear through his belly.  
“Draw them out!” Isran was bellowing. “Draw them into the dawn!”  
“ _Look out!_ ”

A roar from overhead silenced everyone all at once, and a familiar ruby red dragon circled the castle’s tallest towers before its jaw unhinged. Odahviing clamped a newly freed gargoyle and a pair of vampires in his maw before flinging them out towards the freezing sea. An echoing dragon’s voice sounded from the mountains, and Durnehviir’s decayed form came into view.  
“Odahviing! Here!” It was Tharya, far away, sending an explosion of elemental magic towards the next, larger wave of vampires that poured from the castle doors. The dragon landed just long enough for the Last Dragonborn to clamber on.  
  
“Tharya!” Miraak barked, dodging and fighting his way across the bridge to her. He nearly missed a blade to the chest, but the point buried itself in his shoulder instead. With a grunt he whipped around to face the nightcrawler who’d stabbed him, and opened an icy palm towards him. The deathless Breton tried to scramble forward once he realized what was happening, but ice was overtaking his feet, then his legs and torso, swallowing his outstretched arms and stopping his face mid-scream. The Dragon Priest held it for a moment before closing his hand, and the ice statue shattered.  
  
“There is a spell,” Miraak called breathlessly once he reached Tharya, “but we’ll need to draw the rest of them out for it to be effective. I can only perform it perfectly once in such a short time,” Odahviing huffed at him, “when I give you a signal, attack me.” The command was aimed at the dragon, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised. Before Tharya could even protest Odahviing was taking to the skies.  
“What is he talking about? Attack him?” Tharya leaned down towards the dragon as he flew towards the clouds.  
“You are familiar with Shalidor, _Dovahkiin?_ ” But that was all he said. He and Tharya circled the tower once. A Detect Dead spell illuminated a multitude of vampires still holed up inside, but near enough to the main doors. Odahviing belched a line of fire towards one of the castle’s four towers--one of them was already crumbling and looked as if it was about to slide right off and into the water.  
“It looks light the vampires are trying to bar the door to keep us out,” Tharya squinted just as the little glowing figures below her disappeared, her spell hand coming down. “If you bring me down to the bridge, I can get those doors open. They won't come out of their own accord anytime soon.”

 

The Dawnguard cleared a small area on the center of the bridge for Odahviing to land. They all converged on the last vampire from the second wave, who died with a muffled cry.  
“I can get open these doors and force most of the vampires out,” Tharya called to Isran from Odahviing’s neck, “everyone move back, but be ready.”

The glow of molten chains encased her hands as Odahviing planted himself on the bridge for security. At once the chains shot out from her open hands and towards the doors, splintering through their centers. Tharya gave them an experimental tug, before winding the magic metal around her her wrists as well, leaning forward to give them some slack before wrenching the chains backwards.  
“Pull, Odahviing!” Tharya cried through grit teeth. The dragon grunted and took small, careful steps backwards.  
“Paarthurnax will have my throat if you do not come back with your arms attached, _mal kro._ ” The wooden doors creaked and groaned in protest, but a couple steps further and with the sound of bursting hinges they flew off and broke against the bridge.  
“Now for the rest of you,” Tharya muttered, the chains disconnecting from her hands and melting against the bridge.  
“You’re going to pull them out?” Isran called.  
“Just wait.”

 

She closed her eyes to send her magic out further, feeling for all those undead lives she’d seen before from the sky. She hooked onto each, each birthing a new molten chain, each connecting to a different life.  
“ _Ahtlahzey_ ,” a gruff voice nearly broke her concentration, but Miraak said nothing else. Odahviing shifted to allow him closer, to pool his magic towards Tharya’s while copying her spell after a moment of observation. Though his chains were popping and squealing with a layer of ice, he did the same, tethering as many vampires as possible inside to his magicka and holding them there.  
“On my mark, pull. Isran, get ready,” Tharya felt a twinge of guilt in her chest, but quickly pushed it away. It didn’t matter if she was leading them against their wills to the slaughter...did it? “Ready...pull.”

Miraak’s shoulders went tight and he brought his arms upwards, pulling the chains slowly as he did. His fists were nearly against his chest when he started to take long steps backwards.

 

A plethora of alarmed voices reached them and the majority of the vampires appeared, their number closer to a hundred than the Dawnguard’s was. They looked as if they were being pushed against their will from behind, trying to plant their feet firmly on the groud, but to no avail. Tharya closed her eyes. Miraak opened one trembling hand and sent a bolt of light whispering through the crowd of vampires, dodging between them towards the large, open archway where the doors had once been. A dreadful silence settled over the Dawnguard as a portal of white light sealed off the doorway, making it impossible to return through.

 

The Dragon Priest let each chain loose with a small gasp, flexing his fingers once he was free of them.  
_On my signal, ahtlahzey_ . His voice echoed in her head, though he hadn’t said anything. _Attack._

 

“Thar!” A familiar duo with blonde and brown hair approached. Jorstus was splattered in blood, his blade shining with it, but Lofrek remained relatively clean. “Look at you, riding dragons and all. Majestic, really.” Serana jogged over with them, glancing to the nervous group of her kin across the bridge.  
“You should come with me,” the Last Dragonborn eyed the vampire, and nodded towards the castle. “Once Miraak casts his spell we’re going to find your father.”  
“Be careful, sister,” Jorstus warned, his voice low but tinged with brotherly concern.  
“Yes, yes, I’d hate to have to tell Mother of your untimely death. You’ve fought through it all just to be ended by some low-life immortal bloodsuckers? Tsk.” Lofrek laughed uncertainly.  
“You two stay out of trouble,” Tharya grinned back as Serana clambered onto Odahviing behind her. It was the closest to a farewell she would get. She wasn’t usually optimistic but she had to be positive about something, even if it was merely wishing for her own survival in all this. “Help Miraak if you can.” Her eyes settled on the Dragon Priest, his hands clothed in pale blue magic. After a moment, he gave her a stiff nod. “Meet us in the broken tower when you can. Harkon is just about the only one left, give or take a few gargoyles and Death Hounds.” She held her breath for a minute. “Be careful.”

 

Wordlessly, and with one beat of his powerful wings, Odahviing took off. Tharya eyed the paler dragon perched atop the broken down tower by the shoreline. Durnehviir.  
“Do not feel pity for them, _mal kro._ ” Odahviing advised gently. “They chose their deaths.”  
“Like pigs to the slaughter,” she murmured, finally tearing her eyes away from the vampires closing ranks on themselves against the Dawnguard.

 

Odahviing circled in the clouds above the castle as the Dawnguard and Companions clashed with the Volkihar vampires below. The calmness of the sky was mockingly serene. Miraak was but a dot surrounded by glowing runes, just behind the Dawnguard forces. A figure in silver was standing guard on his left, and another one on his right--Farkas and Lofrek. Jorstus was lost in the sea of swinging swords and offensive magic. Hardly a sound reached them up here.  
“So those are your brothers, huh?” Serana asked, her hands loose around the Last Dragonborn’s waist.  
“Unfortunately,” Tharya tried to chuckle, “they haven’t been in as many fights as I have but...they’ll be alright. They look out for each other.”

_Are you ready, dii fil?_

Miraak’s voice sounded low and grating in her head. He’d expended some amount of energy on whatever he was preparing.

_Are you sure about this? If I end up roasting you alive-_

_You won’t._ He sounded so reassured, so firm. Dare she say it--trusting.

_Fine. You’re crazy._

_You knew that when you took me from Apocrypha, ahtlahzey_.

He did have a point.  
“Odahviing, now. Aim for Miraak...and pray he knows what he’s doing.”  
“If he does not, I will take no _tiiraaz_ from his death.”  
“How very comforting.”

 

The dragon aimed himself downwards, his belly just barely skimming the top of the towers. Odahviing gave a deafening roar before circling the castle again, unhinging his jaw, and spitting a fountain of fire directly towards the bridge. Tharya felt Serana hide her face from the intense heat, but all the Last Dragonborn could see was the bridge below her, and the fire spewing from Odahviing’s mouth...aimed right for Miraak.

 

A pulse of magic made the fire falter, and the entirety of the castle seemed to shudder as the ground below it shifted.

_Again!_

“Odahviing, one more time!” The dragon circled the castle, a motion beginning to become dizzyingly familiar, and let loose another burst of flames. This time, the air in front of them shimmered, and the moment the fire hit, a wall of pentagonal glass frames melded together, reaching high into the sky above them, to create a reflective blockade. Odahviing reared upwards at the last moment possible, but each of the hundreds of glass panes were simultaneously angled downwards...right towards the vampires, redirecting the dragonfire onto them. When the sunlight hit just right, each pane became transparent, and through the crowd she could see Miraak, enveloped in a pale blue aura, his palms facing outwards to keep the wall of mirrors up.  
“Shalidor’s Mirror,” Tharya breathed, “gods, I didn’t know he could do that.”

 

The last remnants of the fire died away, leaving an unofficial pyre on the bridge below. There wasn’t a mark on the wall of glass to be seen. They sparkled against the dull break of dawn, placid and winking as Odahviing flew past. 

 _Impressive, is it not?_ Miraak sounded exceedingly proud of himself.  
“It’s beautiful,” Tharya breathed, catching a glimpse of their reflection in the glass.  
“What was that?” Serana asked. She didn’t reply. One by one, the glass pentagons in every direction began to shatter, explode, leaving open spaces in the wall. Glittering, magical dust sifted downwards, like fresh snow.

 _I’ll meet you in the tower, ahtlahzey_. The last pentagons broke and sent more dust into sky. Odahviing turned back towards the broken tower.

 

So this is where it would all end, with the stench of burning corpses caught on the breeze. Tharya fixed the looming castle with a determined eye. This is where it would all end: on the edge of the Sea of Ghosts, with a bitter wind rolling in from the north. This where it would all end: on the edge of the world, at the break of dawn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vuhiik - werewolf  
> Krif voth ahkrin - phrase that means "fight bravely"  
> mal kro - little mage; odahviing's nickname for tharya. in my own cursed words, "odahviing is kind of like tharya's dragon sugar daddy"  
> tiiraaz - sadness/sorrow


	30. The Sun Rises Again (Part III of the End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. Y'ALL. THEY DID IT.
> 
> (not gonna lie i did MINIMAL SPEED EDITING on this one, just bc i'm so excited to get it out and i've been writing ALL DAY. i'll come back and edit tomorrow. for now, have a very minutely refined first draft)

“Serana, my darling.” Harkon droned, gliding downwards from midair with his arms outstretched. His vampire form was more grotesque than anything Tharya had seen, perhaps beside Hermaeus Mora. Skin the color of quarried stone, sharp, sunken facial features. Ribs that pressed to his thin skin as he breathed, even though his belly seemed taut with muscle. Leathery wings protruded from his back, fluttering gently to keep his feet inches above the ground. “I see you favor keeping...pets.” His dark eyes, like glassy black ice, shifted to where Miraak and Tharya were completely frozen in time, surrounded by a dull green aura. The beginnings of a spell were touching the Dragon Priest’s fingertips, and the glow of Tharya’s spear was just beginning to strengthen.

  
“You know why we’re here, Father.” Serana said lowly, her dagger in hand. She sounded almost sympathetic, but there was an undeniable edge to her voice.  
“Of course I do, my darling.” Harkon’s voice was raggedly silky, and conjured images of rusty nails scratching finely shaven wood. “But you disappoint me. Everything I have provided for you, and you have thrown it all away for these...pathetic beings.” Harkon’s dark gaze turned to Miraak, and with his clawed hands clasped loosely behind his back, he floated towards the First Dragonborn. “Though you have brought me an interesting gift, indeed. I am grateful; you have spared me much trouble.” Without disturbing the green glow, he ran a polished talon down the stubble of the Atmoran’s square jaw. “Such angry eyes.”

“He isn’t a gift,” Serana said shortly, “what are you talking about, _providing_ for me? Are you insane? You’ve destroyed our family!”  
“Do not raise your voice at me, my darling.” Harkon snapped.  
“You’ve _killed_ other vampires. You exiled my mother! All for some prophecy that you can’t even understand!” Serana huffed and centered herself, drawing in a sharp breath. “No more, Father. I’m done with you.”

Harkon seemed to go lax for a moment, making a disappointed noise and clicking his tongue.  
“My kitten has grown claws,” he mused, “how your voice drips of your mother’s venom.” His voice grew in conviction. “How _alike_ you are.”  
“I’m stronger than her,” Serana spat back. “I’m not afraid of you, not anymore. Not like she was.”

Harkon let the accusations slide off him, focusing his attention now on Tharya. His leathery hand slipped towards her throat, settling into a light grip. “ _You._ It appears I have _you_ to thank for filling my daughter’s head with such atrocities. Turning her against me.” He gave a melancholic sigh. “I knew it was only a matter of time until my daughter returned with such hatred in her heart, but I had hoped to...halt its cultivation. By people like you.” His hand tightened immensely on her throat.  
“Hatred born only of your-”  
“Silence!” Harkon barked, and Serana’s mouth snapped shut. A garbled choke sounded from Tharya as the green aura disappeared around her. Harkon lifted her easily off the ground, just out of reach of her kicking legs.  
“Hatred is a small price to pay for the betterment of my kind,” Harkon purred, pulling Tharya closer.  
“Your... _kind..._ is a blight...on this world,” Tharya managed, a vein jumping in her neck as she struggled to breathe.  
“Ah, yes, yes,” the vampire lord said dismissively, rolling his ebony eyes, “ever the _noble_ vampire hunter, Dragonborn. Do you never tire of it? I do. But what happens when you slay me? My kind is a blight, you say; do you turn to Valerica next? To Serana?”

Tharya coughed directly into the vampire’s face but he thought little of it. Beside her, Miraak remained still as a statue, poised to fire his magic.  
“Your Dragon Priest cannot help you now,” Harkon followed her gaze, a sick grin forming on his thin lips, shifting even the prominent browbone above his eyes. “Oh, you poor thing. He will die next to you, do not worry. Or, perhaps, I will keep him. My very own Dragonborn, the rebel. Suck him dry of his magical knowledge.”  
“I love your daughter...more than you do,” Tharya hissed, but her voice broke on nearly every word. She sounded hoarse, dying. Serana’s feet couldn’t move; her lips were sealed shut. She couldn’t interfere, even if she wanted to.  
“Then she is truly lost,” Harkon hissed, “she died the moment she let a pair of mortals into her unending life.”

Serana closed her eyes, focusing all her magical energy on her father’s grip on Miraak. It was like background noise to him, lingering in the back of his head. His attention was on Tharya, crushing her windpipe, the way her legs seemed to go limp only to jerk back to life again. And then, suddenly, he lunged forward, fangs protruding from his gums to pierce her neck-  
“ _No!_ ” Miraak burst forward and Serana stumbled back from her father. She’d broken his hold on both of them, allowing Miraak to shove Harkon away from the Last Dragonborn as she tumbled from his hand and crumpled on the floor. Serana saw her window and immediately sent fireballs in quick succession towards the grey monstrosity of her father.  
“The Bow!” She shouted above Harkon’s wretched wailing. Miraak took a protective step over Tharya, one foot behind her and the other in front. He fumbled for the Bow for a second before taking it from his back, leaning down to pull an arrow from Tharya’s quiver. The blessed arrows Gelebor had gifted them before they left, tinged by Snow Elf blood and, in his own words, _kissed by Auri-El himself_. With little time to aim, Miraak let loose a single arrow towards Harkon. The resulting shriek was ear-piercing, and an explosion of blinding light momentarily lit up the room. Just long enough for Miraak to spy a dusty altar bearing Molag Bal’s likeness across the chamber.

 

“ _Vukul!_ ” Miraak was already hoisting Tharya over one shoulder like a sack. “The tower!” With Serana hot on his heels, Miraak bolted for a nearby door partially concealed by the darkness. They left Harkon in a screaming pile on the floor, just waiting for him to follow. The First Dragonborn murmured an enchantment onto the door and then took the stairs two at a time. The first time they came to a landing he glanced down the winding, tight staircase, and decided it safe enough to gently set Tharya against the wall. “Tharya,” he said quietly, letting her hold onto his arms for support, “breathe. Breathe, _dii fil_ , you are safe.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze as she inhaled, ragged and painfully. 

Serana checked down the staircase again, the weak glow of her spells barely enough to illuminate past her feet.  
“We should keep moving,” she said uncertainly. “He won’t be down for long.” A guttural cough echoed loudly throughout the narrow hallway.  
“Rough start, huh?” Tharya groaned, rubbing her chest. 

“ _Vos zey_ ,” Miraak put his fingertips gently to the column of her throat, the warmth of a healing spell making her bruised skin tingle. The darkening imprint of a hand faded.  
“If you’re going to kiss, do it now so we can go,” Serana brushed by them. Miraak’s mouth fell into a frown, but he ignored it.  
“I’m alright,” Tharya promised, giving him a nod. “We can lick our wounds later. Focus on Harkon.” Her voice was sincere but no less demanding. Miraak squeezed her arms before she grabbed his hand and pulled him up the stairs after Serana. Down the stairwell, the door burst open, the whisper of its enchantment fading.  
“Serana! Do not think you can run from me, darling!” Harkon shrieked.

The three of them ran even as the vampire lord’s voice chased after them, threateningly low and closer than any one of them would’ve liked:

“I’ll give you a single chance to turn to the Bow over to me, Serana,” he drawled, “and I will let your mortal friends live. There will not be a second.”  
“The only way you get the Bow is if I shove it up your ass first!” Tharya sneered into the pitch black. Miraak tugged her along like an impatient parent. Up and up and up they went until they could go no further, and they found themselves at the top of the worn down tower. Pale rays of early sunlight filtered through holes and cracks in the roof. It was silent except for their collective breathing.  
“We need a plan,” Tharya was first to speak, letting go of Miraak’s palm to wander quickly around the circular room, spear at the ready. “You need to use the Bow. Maybe that in tandem with this old thing will do the trick, since it seems like the Bow only weakens him.” She shook her spear at Miraak. “Serana, if you and I can keep him occupied, we’ll-”

The vampire took a few steps forward until her left foot sank into the floor. Somewhere in the bowels of the tower, a large trigger was released.  
“What was that?”

A flurry of screaming bats raced up from the stairs and flew straight through the trio, swarming together across the room. In a puff of grey smoke, Harkon appeared with them, his grey skin looking even sicklier in the sunlight.  
“So much for that,” Tharya whispered, drawing herself back to Miraak’s side, “Serana, stay where you are. It’s a booby trap.”  
“How very observant,” Harkon chortled, “Serana, my darling, I’m afraid I’ll have to deal with you later. Be a good girl while I’m gone.” With a wave of his hands his daughter was sucked into a lavender portal and vanished. Another resounding _click_ echoed freely throughout the tower.  
“Valerica was always looking for ways to destroy me, you see,” Harkon said nonchalantly, “this tower was hers. Hence.” He gestured to the destruction. “I’m afraid you’ve activated one of her long-standing traps, and the lever to turn it off, well...is broken. But you won’t be alive to reach it anyway, not for much longer.”

Miraak grimaced, flames lighting his palms. The beginnings of a Shout stitched together low in his core.  
“ _Krongrah uv dinok_ .” He said simply. “Victory, or death.” Tharya grinned.  
“And we have no intention of dying.”

But before his Thu’um could even bubble to the surface, before Tharya could even hurl her spear forward towards the vampire lord, the fire came. First a spitting of flames from two ceiling-to-floor statues of Molag Bal, a sputtering. But then it came full force, and just as it was about the lick them Tharya threw her strongest ward up. It nearly knocked her off balance but she remained staunch.  
“The Bow, if you can!” She called. Miraak reached for her quiver and extracted all the arrows he could with one hand, placing them to hover in the air beside his head. They trembled with the force of the fire; it could be no ordinary inferno. There was magical basis to it, for this fire was meant to kill on site, to roast someone alive in seconds, without mercy. But when he reached for the Bow...

 

It wasn’t there.

 

“ _Ahtlahzey!_ Where is it?” He made a gesture to his back, but Tharya’s eyes only grew wide in response.  
“The stairs, maybe? I don’t know! Go get it!”  
“You cannot hold this-”  
“Just go!” Harkon’s sick laughter dwarfed the roar of the fire, filling her head. As if her focus hadn’t already wavered enough, his slick voice entered her mind:

 _Will you die for him, Dragonborn?_ Miraak was hesitating at her side, a mixture of emotions she had never seen before etched into his earthy brown face. Frustration, disbelief, confusion. Concern. _No, Dragonborn. You_ **_will_ ** _die for him. But that’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?_ All other sound seemed to drown out. The fire, the laughter, whatever Miraak said. Her body felt heavy, her arms like lead, her elbows jelly. She struggled to maintain her pose and keep the ward up. _You always wanted to die for a bigger cause, Dragonborn. You hoped people would remember you for it, wouldn’t you? Because you know, all that you do while you are living, every person you help, every town you save, every injustice you set right, you will never be remembered for those. No one is remembered for the little things._

Tharya understood now. He was going to pick them off one by one. Her first, and then Miraak, if it was even his fate to be killed. Harkon had expressed interest in him, and though the First Dragonborn was one of the strongest, most stubborn people she had ever met--Atmorans were worse than Nords in that regard--his will was...fragile. Harkon would break him in like a house pet or a new pair of shoes so soon after his rescue from Apocrypha, and Miraak would seclude himself again. Crawl back behind his mask. And everything she had worked, everything he had achieved within himself...it would be useless.

As if the fire was prying her fingers away one by one, gradually one hand was peeled off from the ward against her will. The magic in her veins faced a startling halt before resuming and halting again. The bright ward flickered. Miraak shouted something at her, his hands coming up to protect himself. The flames crawled through her magic shield, broke it, weakened it, and in the blink of eye, enveloped her.

 

_Miraak’s shouting faded from her ears, soon replaced by a dull, consistent ringing, like a church bell that could only produce one note. The searing pain in her hands and forearms slowly drifted away, and she felt her eyes flutter closed._

 

_So, this was it. The end._

_“No, nothing nearly so dramatic, Dragonborn.” A chuckle from her left made her jolt awake, sitting up from the...sand? It was powdery and fine, slipping through her fingers when she tried to clench a fist around it. In disbelief, Tharya looked down. Her hands were...they were healed. The flesh of her fingers and palms and knuckles was intact, with no bone protruding, no scorch marks, no dead, black skin around it. They were normal again, if a bit cleaner than before. Warily her gaze trailed up to the presence beside her. She’d felt it before, not many times but often enough to recognize it. Or at least retain it, store it away in the back of her mind for whatever purpose. _  
_ _“Talos?”_ _

_The warrior-god was lounging in the sand beside her, leaning forward with his arms draped over his knees. A sword and winged helmet lay between his sandaled feet. If anything, he was relatively true to the statues that dotted Skyrim, what few of them remained in secluded, hidden places. The Thalmor had toppled or destroyed most of them in their manhunt for secret worshipers. The Divine was tall and well built, bulky, similar to Miraak, in a way. Miraak. Where-_ _  
_ _“It’s the Atmoran blood.” He gave her a grin, interrupting her thoughts before they went any further. His features were proud but hard, softening only when he smiled at her. “So, this is the last to carry my blood.” She blinked at him. His blood? Or the dragonblood? “Auri-El and I have been watching you closely, but just before you got the castle, your immediate future became very clear to us.”_

_An odd throbbing picked up in her wrists and when the Last Dragonborn looked down, her skin was splitting, cracking like burst fabric seams, agony blossoming as blood surfaced and immediately dried. Her fingers began to tremble vigorously, and suddenly her arms seemed too weak to hold the weight of her burnt hands. As if they’d just...fall off._

_“You were meant to come into possession of a divine weapon, but you came into the wrong one.” The hero-god didn’t seem to notice her hands, and if he did, said nothing about it. “Miraak, the Dragon Priest. He blessed your staff, and that should’ve made it holy. But it only half-worked, as I’m sure you know by now. He thinks the blessing went awry but it’s because the spear wasn’t made for you. That...”_  
_“Changed things.” Tharya offered, unable to place her hands in her lap but unable to hold them in the air much longer. Talos nodded. He then shifted towards her, gently placing his much bigger palms below her shaking ones. Examinative hazel eyes drifted over her burnt skin._ _  
_ “We saw this coming,” he said almost woefully, “I wanted to stop it but this was the only way for to get the correct relic. I apologize,” Talos’s hands slipped away, replaced by a soothing sensation crawling across her skin and a new weight encompassing her forearms. “These are what you were meant to come into possession of.”

_She looked down._

_“No,” the Last Dragonborn said after a moment. “The spear. That’s all I need.”_

_Talos blinked at her._  
_“I had a feeling you would say that,” he sighed. “Auri-El and I don’t know what will happen if you keep the spear. We won’t be able to see your future--your destiny, for the time being.”_  
_“Maybe that’s for the best,” Tharya gave a light shrug. The weight around her forearms disappeared but her skin remained intact. The golden bracers that had been there materialized away, their divine carvings and energy vanishing with them. She stood from the fine sand and brushed it off her robes, looking around._  
_“Well, I suppose that takes care of that.” Talos sighed. “You certainly are stubborn enough to be a Nord.”_  
_“Where is this place?” She asked, looking at the hero-god as he stood with her. Talos only smiled._ _  
_ “ _Just one question before I send you back, Dragonborn,” he crossed his arms, “why the spear?”_

_The familiar feeling of wood meeting cool metal fell into her palm and when she looked, there was her staff, with veins of gold seeping like dripping paint into the red wood._  
_“It’s not just mine,” she said finally, “it’s Miraak’s too, in a way.”_  
_“He can’t touch it.” Talos looked confused. “It burned him in Riften.”_  
_“Even so,” another little shrug, “he blessed it. He used it in Apocrypha. It’s his too, in a way.” She repeated._ _  
“As good a reason as any.” Talos mused after a minute. “Very well. The spear it is. I haven’t known many people to shirk destiny like you have, Dragonborn, but I wish you good luck.”_

 

When she blinked she was suddenly back at Castle Volkihar. Her hands were casting a ward that was failing. Her magicka felt drained. She had been here before, just before Talos had taken her away. But she was...back? Had he sent her back in time?  
And if so, was he going to let her hands burn away?

“ _Ahtlahzey!_ ” A familiar voice shouted above the deafening noise of Harkon’s flames. She didn’t dare let her focus turn from the ward to find Miraak, but she didn’t have to. He appeared beside her looking breathless and weary but determined. His hands connected with a thunderous clap and then he braced one forearm over the other in an X formation. A massively powerful ward materialized before him, wiping out Tharya’s much smaller one and curving around the edges to protect their flanks from the fire.  
“Where was that this whole time?” She yelled, finding it within herself to laugh. The First Dragonborn’s head was bowed but his gaze turned towards her, and she _swore_ by every Divine the hints of a smile crossed his face.  
“The Bow, _dii fil_ ,” Miraak called, “go.” Tharya gave a swift nod and turned just as the Dragon Priest’s ward seemed to flutter and his feet shifted backwards. Her hand fell to his arm.  
“Are you sure you can hold this!”  
“ _Go!_ ” He barked, shouldering her off. “I will hold it for as long as I need to.” Miraak grunted and planted himself against the stones beneath his boots, legs spread and every muscle straining. “As long as _you_ need me to.” He found her worried gaze over his shoulder, and he nodded towards the stairs. “Go.” It was so quiet his command was lost in the noise but she seemed to hear it somehow. Her fingers squeezed his bicep before she ran off, disappearing down the stairs.

The touch of her magicka lingered on his arm and then faded away. She had given him the last of her reserves when she grabbed him, the feeling was undeniable. Now all that was left was to hold Harkon off until she returned. He tried to peer around the edges of his ward to the statues that were currently spouting endless fire towards him, but to no avail.  
“Can you truly hold this so long, Dragon Priest?” Harkon tutted. His voice was quiet enough to be swallowed by the flames, yet he spoke over them with ease. Through his magic and the fire, Miraak could just barely see the outline of his grey and gross figure. He closed his eyes.

He only prayed that Tharya returned soon.

 

“Divines above, Auri-El, you bastard, you couldn’t have made the Bow a wrist attachment or something?” Tharya grumbled as she flew down the stairs. Her conversation with Talos was fresh in her mind. Where had she been? Why had he allowed her to “shirk destiny”? It seemed like divine rule-breaking. But when she looked down at her arms, they were whole. Her hands trembled lightly but that was it. She could feel the last shreds of her magicka, dim and waiting begrudgingly for use.

And as if Auri-El had answered her complaints, a bright light lit up around the corner. A low, clear ring entered her ears. The glow was only reciprocated by that of her spear, and when she paused to experimentally point it downwards, the light intensified.

Sitting there forgotten, on the landing where Miraak had healed her, was Auri-El’s Bow.

She bounded back up the stairs with Auri-El’s Bow in hand, immediately meeting Miraak’s black eyes. Since she’d been gone he’d been moved again by Harkon’s onslaught, pushed back a considerable distance. He was holding the ward up with his back to it, palms spread against the magic shield, like one would try to hold a door shut. A wave of relief washed over his features the moment he saw her but behind him the ward flickered dangerously and his jaw went taut.  
“Let me,” she tried to take charge of keeping the magic up but he shook his head vehemently.  
“Stand back, _dii fil_.” His voice was nearly lost to the roar but she heard it, and reluctantly moved away. It was a slow process but Miraak pried himself from the ward, turning to face it, and then peeling one hand away from the magic.  
“What are you doing?” Tharya shouted, alarm in her voice. There was no way he would be able to hold it with one hand for any length of time. She watched as he brought his right fist back, and with a roar that was gobbled up by the fire, sent it crashing directly into the wall of magic.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The ward shattered and sent an explosion of light and magic across the top of the tower, extinguishing the flames and bursting the statues. It sent Tharya flying backwards and Miraak, closest to its epicenter, hurdling into the ruins of the tower’s stone wall. With a great groaning and crashing the already dislodged roof of the ruined tower exploded, flinging chunks of stone and wood out into the water and across the little island. An eerie silence settled over the battling Dawnguard forces below, as well as the handful of vampires left. All eyes turned to the destroyed tower. Without a word the Dawnguard took the chance to drive their blades into their final foes, and immediately began to scramble towards the castle in hopes of reaching the tower.

 

Tharya came to first, groaning and coughing. She touched the back of her head and her fingers came away bloody. Something in her torso was broken, but she had neither the strength nor the magicka to heal her wounds. Around her was a sea of rubble. The air was heavy and almost oppressive with magic. It pushed her down even as she stood, surveying the wreckage for one man.

 

At her feet Auri-El’s Bow was dusty but oddly untarnished, with hardly a scratch on its smooth golden surface. She picked it up and staggered away from where the explosion had left her. A sharp pain in her head almost sent her back down, but she managed to grit her teeth through it. Miraak was nowhere to be seen in her immediate proximity. He had no staff and no sword, so there was not even a remnant of him sticking out between the toppled stones. Above her, the sun beat relentlessly, and the day’s first birds chirped happily as they flew to the shore.

The flash image of a man with long grey hair assaulted her, speaking, his lips moving but no sound coming out.  
_Mere seconds have passed in your mortal world, and you will return with no knowledge of our meeting. But its importance remains..._ _  
_ “Distinct.” She heard herself finish the sentence. Who...? Was this a memory or a premonition? Or simply nonsense? Was it Talos interfering again? Her feet carried her towards the caved wall.

_May she be rewarded...for her service...as I am._

That was Miraak. He had said that in Apocrypha, so long ago. With a tentacle through his chest.

_Never forget that you have rewritten every history book that remains unwritten._

The sight of dark violet robes caught her eye. Miraak. A stone was lying half-on his right leg, crushing his hand beneath it as well. His body looked limp and was covered in a fine layer of stone dust.

_You hold the quill, now._

 

“Miraak!” She collapsed beside him, the Bow clattering to the ground. Blood was flowing freely from somewhere beneath his hair, staining her hands when she tried to move him. “Miraak, Miraak, listen to me. You’re alright, come on. Wake up.” It took every last scrap of strength and magic in her body to move the stone off him, the unsettling sound of grinding bones reaching her ears when it budged. “Miraak,” she breathed, gathering his limp torso in her arms. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted. His head lolled listlessly to the side.

Her heart sank.  
“Miraak,” she tried again, voice multitudes softer. “Stay with me.” One hand curled weakly into his robe. “You’re alright. Wake up.” She gave the Dragon Priest a gentle shake. He didn’t reply. “ _Miraak_ ,” her voice broke in the middle of his name, throat tight, “wake up, you big bastard, now isn’t the time. We’re almost done.” She ignored the tears welling in her eyes, the wavering of her voice. “Almost done. You still have to use the Bow.” Shaking fingers gently pushed his hair away from his face. “I told you we’d fix your eyes, didn’t I?” A bitter laugh left her dry lips, but it morphed into a strangled sob. “Come on, Miraak, I know you don’t do jokes but this isn’t funny.”

Still, he didn’t move.  
“You bastard,” she whispered, “you bastard. You’re not allowed to die.” Without a thought her head dropped to his chest, knuckles white as her fists twisted into his robes. “You can’t leave me.” With her last fragment of hope she gently touched his cheek, eyes trained on his face for any sign of life. There was nothing. She screwed her eyes shut and muffled a wretched sob into the fabric. “Miraak, don’t leave me.”

 

She didn’t know how long she cried but only that it made her head pound so hard her eyes seemed to hurt. But the screaming pain of her head was nothing next to the tearing agony in her chest. Above her the birds sang happy dirges and the water continued to lap against the castle’s rocky shoreline. The world did not stop for the fallen, no matter how beloved. In that moment, she hated it. She cursed the world. It did nothing to save and nothing to help. It didn’t even acknowledge the loss of one of the greatest beings to ever touch it. No, the world kept moving in its happy, unending symphony, paying no mind to her or what it--and she--had lost.

 

She hated the world in that moment, because she had lost hers.

 

And then, with a gentle groan and an experimental shift of the legs, Miraak put one heavy arm over her.  
“Who said anything about leaving, _ahtlahzey_?”

 

She shot upright like an arrow, wiping furiously at her eyes and untangling her hands from his robes.  
“You bastard. Get up.” She demanded, inhaling shakily. “What the hell did you do?” With his good arm the Dragon Priest moved into a sitting position. “You’re worse than me, really. And Talos thinks I’m stubborn. At least I don’t go about getting myself killed like a bastard!” She wiped at her eyes. “Divines, you really are the worst. I have no idea how you haven’t just kicked the bucket yet, really.” When she looked at him again, she was surprised to find amusement in his eyes.  
“Are you done, _ahtlahzey?_ ” He asked hoarsely after a long silence.  
“For now, because I’m too beat up to-”

And he silenced her with a kiss.

The world seemed to go soft. The birds sang gentle, lazy lullabies above them. The sun tickled their skin but seemed to let up in its relentless beating, bathing them instead in a saintly warmth that both soothed the aches and cured, just for a moment, the breaks and cuts. Miraak’s dusty fingers smoothed her hair back, traced over the ridge of her ear, down her jawline, dancing over her healed throat only to slide under golden strands from the nape of her neck. It was every bit as soft and smooth as he’d thought, and he didn’t miss the brief shudder that touched her spine. Weakly he moved his broken arm to sit around her waist, urging her just the slightest bit closer.

She took his limp and crushed hand and before he could protest, or even lift his lips from hers, gave up the last of her magicka to heal it. He winced and groaned against her mouth as the bones snapped back into wholeness and rearranged themselves, leaving a dull throbbing in the center of his palm.  
“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered once he finally found it within himself to break away, remaining close enough that their lips grazed when he spoke. He pressed his palm to her cheek, thumb sliding over her warpaint. “Save your strength.” This time, _she_ kissed _him._  
“As far as I know, a bow requires two hands to use, holy or not. And you have a vampire lord to kill.” Tentatively, she touched his face, examining him for a moment as if it was the first time she’d ever laid eyes on him. He curled his fingers around her wrist. “And eyes to reclaim.”

 

And for the first time in four thousand years, Miraak, last surviving Atmoran, First Dragonborn, Dragon Priest, First Mage to the Dragon Cult of old, Prisoner of Apocrypha, Traitor, and newly-christened vampire hunter, smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vukul - vampire  
> vos zey - allow me


	31. A Soft Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miraak reclaims his eyes. the dawnguard parties the night away back at the sea point tavern, much to the dismay of the townspeople. yes, the fishermen get their boats back. but the journey is not over for tharya.
> 
> (seapoint settlement is a mod btw)  
> also, an important announcement: IT’S THARYA’S BIRTHDAY MONTH!! though the official day is 22nd of Last Seed, August 22nd, i’m in the birthday mood, so feel free to celebrate with me with art or fic! i’ll be posting some stuff later on!!

He lodged three blessed arrows in Harkon’s torso before they clambered down from the tower. One for himself, one for Serana, and one for Tharya--although he didn’t say it. The vampire lord had been forced out of his gnarled, animalistic form and back into his human body of pale skin, dark hair, and fiery orange eyes. He was unconscious when they found him in the rubble. His eyes fluttered open when the first arrow buried itself in his leather armor, and they did not open again after that. A shooting pain erupted behind Miraak's eyes and Auri-El’s Bow rattled out of his hands, disappearing before it could even hit the ground. Back to the sanctuary, back to Gelebor, Tharya guessed. But she wasn’t concerned about it; she hardly noticed it. She was lost in the pools of molten gold staring back at her.

 

The Sea Point tavern was chock full of strangers in armor that night. They filled each table and more. Some of them even sat on the floor, and others stood beside the fire to fend off the draft blowing from the left corner. The Companions mingled freely with the majority of the Dawnguard forces--some of them had already stumbled into beds or found other places, inside or out, to pass out for the night. The bar seemed to be the only place with free space, but even then all the barstools had been taken away to other places, save for one.

 

Tharya sat with her back to the wooden counter, a bottle of mead in one hand. Her eyes were half-lidded, not from drinking but exhaustion. She would never pass up a chance to celebrate with her comrades but the night was becoming the early hours of morning, and the midnight oil had run out.  
“Lady,” she called over her shoulder, placing the empty bottle on the counter behind her, “one more.” When she didn’t get a response, Tharya sat up with a groan and half-turned to where the innkeep had been an hour ago. “Hey, I--Celann!” Her gaze traveled down the bar and to a nearby table, where Celann was busy occupying the innkeep’s lips with his own. “Oh, gods damn it. I don’t care.” She stood and reached over the bar and grabbed herself a second mead, fishing around for a couple septims to put in its place.

 

“I would’ve liked to see you drink against Vahlok,” a deep voice said from her side. When she slumped back into her stool, legs outstretched, Miraak was there, his golden eyes looking amused. “You would’ve gotten along better than we did.”

She gave him a little smile.  
“I’ll ask you about it another night,” she promised, and gestured lazily around the tavern. “Pull up a chair, if you can find one.” The Dragon Priest searched for a moment before taking a few limping steps towards a table near the door, and whisking away an empty stool with his good arm before someone could come sit in it again. He set it down beside her and cast his gaze around the inn again, looking satisfied.

  
Miraak finally turned away from the fire, sinking onto the barstool beside Tharya with a low groan.  
“What now, _dii fil?_ ” He asked, examining her features against the firelight. She looked exhausted, but he was sure he didn’t look much better. He adjusted the makeshift sling around his right arm.  
“I’m not sure,” she replied after a moment, aimlessly swirling the bottle of mead in her hand. Her eyes turned towards the door as another townsperson shuffled in from the snow outside. They watched as his features fell immediately upon seeing the crowd of strangers in the tavern, and he decided to open the door again and go back outside, leaving faint tracks of snow in his wake. “Should be one of the last snows of the season.” Miraak’s attention swiveled back to the Last Dragonborn. She held the bottle out to him and after a bit of hesitation he took it, draining at least half before she shot him a look that said she definitely wanted some back.  
“Your Fourth Era mead is water compared to what we had,” he grimaced, “maybe you wouldn’t do so well against Vahlok after all.” She grinned but didn’t reply, and then went on as if he hadn’t said anything.

 

“On the first day of spring each year my family would have dinner. Just the seven of us. I’d always make a big pitcher of iced tea-” she made a gesture with her hands, as if she was holding said pitcher between them, “-a specialty drink from Cyrodiil. I have a friend in the East Empire Company who would order the tea and sugar for me in advance.” Warmth crept into the Dragon Priest’s fingertips as he watched a faint smile touch her tired face. For a woman who claimed to have _no old friends_ , she seemed to have a great many of them.

 

“I’d get a bucket of water and freeze it with my magic, so they could chip off some ice if they wanted it,” Tharya gave a gentle laugh and drank the rest of her mead, setting the empty bottle on the counter. “But I don’t think I’ll be home in time this year.” Just like that, the smile disappeared, and her lips settled back into a weary line. Miraak was quiet for a second before sitting forward, wincing as his broken arm shifted. He knew neither he nor Tharya had the magicka reserved to heal it entirely, and as far as he knew there were no potent magic users among the Dawnguard or the Companions. Perhaps tomorrow. If he could conjure the will to even leave wherever he chose to throw himself down and sleep tonight.

 

He extended his good hand to her and after a moment she took it. When he didn’t do anything, her eyes flicked away from the popping fire and found his, an unspoken question dancing behind them. He dragged his thumb across her knuckles before the slightest upturn tugged at the corners of his mouth.  
“Then perhaps we should go home, _ahtlahzey_.”

She laced their fingers together before replying, a faraway look in her eyes.  
“Perhaps we should.”

 

She would find nothing she expected at home. At home, there were unfamiliar faces in familiar blue sashes bearing familiar names. At home, there was new oppressors from an old enemy. And at home, there was a column of thick smoke rising just east of the walls of the city, and a fire toppling the frame of Tundra House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. WOW. we did it! people, we did it! we finished this whole hulkin fic!!!! i can't even believe it!! i'm so happy (and EXHAUSTED, i've been writing since the moment i got up). i REALLY could not have gotten this done without all of y'alls support and kudos and lovely comments, so THANK YOU!! i swear i was so ready to give up so many times--we all know my specialty lies in short stories, and that's where i do my best writing. 31 chapters?!?! that's insane! and i swear i only got it done because i knew y'all would break into my house and beat me over the head if i never finished it (jk <3). this one's for you :)


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